


ice cream habit

by weepies



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: ADDING TAGS AS I POST CHAPTERS, Angst, Cocaine, Dissociation, Drug Addiction, Fluff, Ice Cream, M/M, Nosebleed, Secrets, Summer Vacation, blonde eddie hehehe, idk read and find out i suck at tags, painted nails richie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-06-25 15:07:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 37,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15643245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepies/pseuds/weepies
Summary: Richie is quiet with his next words, which resemble an empty plead; he tells Eddie, “You don’t wanna get mixed up with me.”And Eddie says, “Are you really trying to tell me what I want?”





	1. before

The hot summer sun glares overhead; the Scoops N’ Smiles chime sings from inside, and Eddie Kaspbrak’s tongue tickles the border between his scoop of strawberry ice cream and his chocolate dipped waffle cone. He stares across the way, at the parked but running red mustang. At the curly haired boy in the driver’s seat, at how he has his left hand on the wheel and his right hand hanging out the window, stabling the cigarette squeezed between his fingers. Slowly, he raises the cigarette and takes a drag. Exhales. Adjusts his glasses. And he stares at Eddie right back.

The door behind Eddie chimes, and he hears the familiar patter of his cousin’s old tennis shoes. He licks his ice cream, the melting dots teasing his fingertips, and, with his gaze never leaving the stranger’s, he says to his cousin, “Who’s that?”

Stan adjusts his grip on his ice cream, vanilla with sprinkles, and answers blankly, “I don’t know.”

Eddie huffs. Suddenly, the boy in the driver’s seat flicks his cigarette out the window, moves his right hand to the wheel and his left hand to the gearshift, easing the car out of Park. He turns his attention from Eddie to the road and drives off. Furrowing his brows, Eddie keeps his eyes trained on the car as it slowly makes its way down the street, out of Eddie’s sight, but not out of his mind.

Eddie has only seen a few streets of Leeside, and he already knows it is a million times more fun than Derry. The only ice cream parlor in Derry is owned by an old creep and his college-graduate girlfriend, so not that many teenagers like to hang around there. Eddie especially. The first time he went inside, he wasn’t completely sure he was going to make it out of there alive judging by how the owner was eyeing him. He’d never fled an establishment without saying goodbye before.

“Let’s go home,” Stan says, breaking Eddie’s train of thought. Eddie turns to look at Stan, watches as he licks feverishly at his ice cream cone, then nods. As Stan walks toward the back parking lot, to his mother’s old car, the one he had used to drive Eddie and himself to Scoops N’ Smiles Ice Cream, Eddie is unable to stop himself from stealing a quick glance over his shoulder, to peer down the street the red mustang had followed. By now it is long gone, but that doesn’t stop a little curiosity from bubbling in Eddie’s chest.

Stan gets in the driver’s seat and hands his ice cream off to Eddie. Stan’s house isn’t too far, about five minutes, but even so, Eddie still struggles to juggle two ice cream cones while both of them are melting. When they pull into the house’s driveway, Stan takes back his cone and they sit in the car for a while before getting out. They have a laugh, finish their food, and finally make their way to the dining area, where Eddie’s mother sits waiting for him. At the sight of Sonia, Stan’s chatter comes to a stop, and his eyes drift to Eddie, because he has his hands balled into fists and his jaw clenched, silently wondering when he will catch a break.

“Eddie-bear,” she says to him, lowering the book she’s reading just enough so that Eddie can make out her eyes. “Stanley. Your father was looking for you out back. In the garage.” Obediently, Stan nods, offers Eddie a sympathetic glance, and heads back out the front door to make his way to the garage. Sonia turns to Eddie, and smiles in a way that makes him uncomfortable. Rubbing his arm, Eddie hopes whatever his mother has to say is short, though he doubts the chances of that. “Eddie-bear,” she echoes, and how Eddie _despises_ the way she uses that childish nickname, “You need to get a job this summer. We’ll need the extra money to help pay for your college expenses.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says curtly, twiddling with the raw hem of his shirt. It had been too big when he’d bought it, so he’d taken a pair of scissors to it, much to his mother’s annoyance. “I will. Tomorrow. It’s almost dinnertime now, anyway. Everything is probably closing soon.”

“All right. Now be a good boy and go help your Aunt in the kitchen,” Sonia tells him, and he wants to ask why _he_ has to do it, why _she_ can’t. But he knows picking fights is no good; they both end up upset, and neither one wants to apologize. In younger years, Eddie had always gotten along better with his father.

“Okay, Ma,” Eddie says. When he’s past her seat at the table, he rolls his eyes and takes a deep breath. Pushing the door open to the kitchen, he finds his aunt Andrea heating some pasta on the stovetop. “Need any help?” he asks politely. She meets Eddie’s eyes as if she is just now noticing him, and smiles kindly before waving her hand in the air.

“Oh, Eddie,” she says, a hand caressing her bouncing ponytail. She has the sweetest curls, much like Stan. “You’re so sweet. I wish Stanley were more like you, sometimes… I’m okay here, dear, head on upstairs and do whatever it is you do.” Grinning, Eddie goes over to the staircase and heads upstairs, to the last room at the end of the hallway. Stan’s bedroom is nice and neat, much like Eddie’s room back in Derry, and that is something Eddie is grateful for. He couldn’t deal with a messy roommate; Stan’s habits are much more Eddie’s speed. Eddie lies down on the bottom bunk of Stan’s bunk bed and heaves a heavy sigh, covering his eyes with his hands.

At the thought of his cousin, the door to the bedroom pushes open. Eddie takes his hands away from his eyes and blinks up at Stan as he towers over the bottom bunk. Staring at Eddie, Stan runs a hand through his curls and says, “My friend Bill just called and invited us to the roller rink tonight. My other friends will be there, too. You’ll like them.” Eddie sits upright in bed.

“Oh. Okay.” He didn’t come to Leeside expecting to make friends, but the thought makes him awfully giddy. Eddie and his mother have visited Stan’s family every summer since the death of Frank Kaspbrak, four years ago. Despite this, Eddie has never met any of Stan’s friends. He recalls Stan mentioning Bill at one point, maybe. In Derry, Eddie doesn’t have any friends. Most of the students at Derry High know of his mother and her strange overprotective ways, so nobody bothered to get to know Eddie, assuming he must be weird by being product of a woman like _that._ “That sounds nice.” Eddie smiles genuinely, and Stan mirrors his joy.

Dinner goes by quickly. Both of Stan’s parents, Eddie’s mother, and Eddie and Stan, join together at the dining room table for polite (but boring) conversation. Eddie eats his vegetables to please his mother, who looks over at his plate every so often, and laughs too loudly at something her sister says, and she drinks too much wine. Stan’s dad, Donald, is relatively quiet, but straight-faced. Eddie does not speak to his uncle so often. Nothing ever prompts it. Stan’s dad is okay, but he does not smile very often and is too hard on his son, so Eddie has never been too fond of him at all. At the end of the meal, Stan collects all the plates and Eddie helps him with the washing. By nine o’clock they are out the door and on their way to meet Stan’s school friends.

They have to lie about where they’re going because Sonia would be sick if she knew her precious, delicate son was going _roller-skating_. So when they arrive, and Eddie steps out of the car and gets a good look at the neon lights outside the establishment, he is in awe. It isn’t what he imagined. It’s _better._ It’s his first day in Leeside, and Eddie thinks he might never want to leave.

“My friends are inside,” Stan says, stealing Eddie’s attention. Eddie grins, and follows Stan inside the building. The inside is much like the outside, darker, with dimmed lights, and fun colors bouncing from wall to wall, dozens of people skating in the middle of the floor. There is blasting music, laughing groups of teenagers, smiling faces. Eddie feels a hand on his elbow, and allows Stan to guide him over to the counter so they can pick out some skates. By the time Eddie tells the employee his shoe size, pays for his rentals, and ties them to both his feet, a group of bubbly teenagers have approached him and his cousin. Looking up from his seat on the bench, Eddie sees three unfamiliar faces. They grin at him, and the boy with auburn hair extends his hand for a friendly shake.

“H-Hi,” he stutters, taking Eddie by surprise, “I’m Bill. Y-You must be E-E-Eddie.”

“Yeah, hey,” Eddie says, and he shakes Bill’s hand. The two boys standing beside Bill echo his look of content, and offer their hands for Eddie to shake, too.

“Ben,” the shorter boy says.

“Mike,” the tallest says.

“It’s nice to meet you guys,” Eddie replies, standing up, and he is foolish to think he would be stable enough on his own his first time wearing these skates. Thankfully, Mike grabs ahold of Eddie’s arm before he falls over, and Eddie huffs a quiet laugh. “Shit. Sorry. Thanks for that.”

“No worries,” Mike tells him, letting go of Eddie slowly so Eddie can balance himself out. “You’re from Derry, right?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says.

“My grandpa’s got a farm over there. I visit him a few times a week,” Mike tells him.

“Oh. I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other, then,” Eddie says.

“I usually just go into town to help him run some errands.” Mike shrugs a shoulder up to his ear. “I’ll keep an eye out for you next time, though.”

“Sounds good,” Eddie says, grinning, because he _already_ likes Stan’s friends.

“Should we get out there?” Ben asks, pointing his thumb back at the rink. Eddie nods his head excitedly, and Stan looks pleased to see Eddie enjoying himself so much without having even stepped onto the floor yet. “Eddie, have you ever been rollerskating before?”

“Nope,” Eddie says, but his smile refuses to falter. “I’m super excited.”

“We’ll be here to help you out if you need,” Ben says, and Bill nods beside him.

“We’re b-basically pros,” Bill says confidently. Stan rolls his eyes at this and puts his hand on Bill’s shoulder, an action that makes Bill’s gaze dart to meet Stan’s, and that makes Eddie’s brows raise. An action that makes Eddie wonder if there’s something there, between them, under the neon lighting. But the moment is over before it has even started, and the five boys are headed to the center of the room. Stan goes first, Bill following closely behind, giggling and exchanging flirtatious glances, but Mike and Ben take easy steps so they can help Eddie out if he staggers.

“We’re right here,” Ben vocalizes. “If you need it.”

Eddie has never been naturally good at anything, ever. Skill is something Eddie works for. It is studying for a math test, because calculus has never been Eddie’s strongpoint, and getting a test back with an A- marked across the top in blood red ink. It is falling off a bike a hundred times before being able to ride it swiftly, wind spewing across his cheeks, no help from his parents needed. It is hard work, determination… But as Eddie takes his first step on the floor, and feels the solidness of the flooring beneath the wheels of his skate, he pushes off, away from the fencing, and lets himself float. Without thought, arms stretched out by his sides, momentum under his feet, Eddie glides across the floor, grinning wildly, gazing at his surroundings, at the people nearby. Already, he loves this. It is like running but better. It’s _more._

He turns around, faces Stan and his friends, and makes his way over to where they are all skating. And while Eddie is a natural in these shoes while moving, it becomes apparent to him he does not know how to stop, but Ben seems to be able to read his face, and grabs Eddie’s hand to pull him to a full stop. Ben says, “I thought you said you’ve never been to one of these before.”

And Eddie grins, says, “I haven’t.”

“Bullshit,” Mike tells him. “You don’t skate like that on your first try.”

“He just did,” Stan confirms. “His mom doesn’t let him skate.”

“You’re a-already as good as u-us,” Bill comments. “B-But how about w-we teach you how to s-s-stop?” he adds with a small laugh. Eddie nods, lets Bill take his hand and examines how Bill turns his back skate so it is positioned vertical against the floor, listens to how he explains that is how you slow to a stop. Eddie is a quick learner when it comes to roller-skating, the group soon finds out. And then they are all skating together in the center, goofing around, playfully bumping into each other, and Eddie wonders how he has just met these three boys tonight, because it feels as if he has known them his whole life.

An hour passes, and his friends sit out as the time draws out, but Eddie claims the floor as his own. He thinks about nothing but the speed he picks up, and Derry has never seemed so far from Eddie than it does now. Eddie only pulls to a stop and grabs hold of the fencing to catch his breath, and he glances around the room for Stan, and catches sight of him over by the vending machine. Eddie skates over to the fencing exit and walks over on wobbly feet to Stan. He huffs a quiet breath, then coughs, hand on his chest, and tells Stan, “I’m gonna go outside to get some air.” And Stan smiles, says, “Okay, Eddie. Leave your skates over by the bench.” So Eddie does, leaves them with Ben and Bill and Mike, who are all drinking milkshakes from the concessions stand and talking.

Only when Eddie is outside does he place his hand on his right pocket, feeling for his inhaler. His mother makes him carry it around. And he knows he doesn’t need it; he hasn’t needed it in years, but sometimes he likes to remind himself that it _is_ there. It is a nice reminder.

He jolts when he hears somebody to his side, standing by the corner of the building. The boy from this morning, the one who had been sitting in the red mustang, smoking a cigarette, now does much of the same standing on his feet. He is slouched against the building, dark curly hair tipped back on the bricks, lips puckered around an off-white cigarette. Though he shoots Eddie an amused look as he takes a drag, and angles his exhale opposite of Eddie, as if he _knows_ the inhaler is in Eddie’s pocket, though Eddie knows that is realistically impossible.

“Y-You following me?” Eddie asks cautiously, yet he has no clue how he gathered the courage to say anything at all. This stranger looks boisterous in the clothes he wears, in the cigarette he smokes, but his arms are lanky, his legs too long, so Eddie doubts he is an actual threat to anybody. Even so, Eddie crosses his arms against his chest and tries to act untouched, unscathed, but the cough that rumbles from his chest blows his cover. The boy chuckles, rolls his eyes, and puts out his cigarette without Eddie even asking him to.

“Maybe,” the boy replies, turning his body so he stands facing Eddie. It is now Eddie notices the boy wears a set of black, stud earrings. “Or maybe you’re the one following me.” And Eddie doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just shakes his head sheepishly and bites his bottom lip out of anxious habit. “You’re not from around here,” the boy says then, and Eddie’s eyes go wide in surprise, in wonder.

“How can you tell?” Eddie asks, but he already knows. Eddie does not dress like people in this town. This town is somehow home to both bright colors and to soulful shades of grey, to people in high-waisted pants and legwarmers, ripped jeans and oversized jackets. Eddie dresses in pastel shades, in button up shirts and pink polos, comfortable shorts, messily styled dirty blond hair. It is easier to go unnoticed that way.

And yet, this stranger has taken notice to him.

“Lucky guess,” the boy says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his multicolor windbreaker. Eddie has never seen a jacket like this before. It looks ahead of its time, and dirty, worn, as if the stranger is so rarely spotted out of it. Like it sleeps against his arms and zipped up to his chest. “Where are ya from, then?”

Eddie doesn’t know if he should say. He doesn’t know this person, has yet to even find out his name. But something within Eddie longs to get to know him, and so Eddie obliges the butterflies in his stomach, which spread there like wildfire, and he answers, “Derry.”

“Derry?” The boy says, like a question. “My good friend goes there sometimes. Her dad lives in the outskirts, I think. I dunno, really. Never been there myself.”

“You’ve lived in Leeside your whole life?” Eddie asks, wanting to eat up any information this boy is willing to offer. It doesn’t cross Eddie’s mind to ask his name, strangely enough.

“Sure have,” he says with a sly smile. Eddie smiles back, because he can’t help it, and notices that the boy’s nose is runny. He is about to say something, suggest the boy get a tissue, or go to the bathroom, but the boy raises his fingers underneath his nose and presses down on his cupid’s bow, looks at his fingertips, and then retrieves a tissue from the back pocket of his dark blue jeans. “Sorry,” he says as he blows his nose. “Allergies.”

“I know how that is,” Eddie says awkwardly, and he visibly cringes at his own pathetic attempt at conversation with a cute boy. “I mean—never mind.”

“You know how that is,” the boy echoes, putting the tissue back in his pocket. And before he or Eddie can say anything more, the door to the roller rink is opened, and a line of people surge out. It is a large group of people Eddie does not know, and so he is shocked to find Stan at the end of it. Stan looks relieved to see Eddie, like he was worried about Eddie’s whereabouts (how long has Eddie been gone?), but when his gaze falls to the stranger, his eyes turn cold, jaw clenched, lips pursed.

“Come on, Eddie,” Stan says, but he isn’t looking at Eddie at all. There is a distance in his voice, one Eddie finds unrecognizable. A distance that is directed at the stranger. “We’re leaving now.”

Furrowing his brows, Eddie looks at Stan and says, “I’ll come inside in a sec to return my skates.” But Stan doesn’t budge. He stands taller, stern. “Stan,” Eddie says. Stan never acts like this. Stan is nice, and kind, and funny. He is not cold, or rude, like he is being now.

Reluctantly, Stan goes back inside. The stranger looks at Eddie, unbothered by the scene that seemed to play out, and parts his chapped lips.

“Eddie,” he echoes, “I’ll remember that.”

And Eddie watches as a girl across the street steals the boy’s attention. She wolf whistles at him and laughs beautifully. Her hair is fiery, her grin wild, as she waves the stranger over to her with both her arms. She wears light blue jeans that bag around her ankles, a loose fitting shirt that cuts to her mid-waist, and red rimmed sunglasses, even though it is nighttime. The boy nods his head at her, starts to walk away, and tells Eddie, “See you around.”

And Eddie is just a little bit dumbfounded at that.

Then he realizes.

“Wait!” he calls after the boy, who does not even turn around. “What’s your name?” Eddie asks, the question finally rolling off his tongue, because he so desperately wants to know.

Finally, the boy turns around, a cocky grin on his face.

“Whatever you want it to be!” he shouts back, and Eddie feels as though he should have expected an answer as vague as that. The boy goes to the girl, and they walk away together. Not another glance is spared in Eddie’s direction. He feels foolish for even considering those odds.

Eddie does not know what to make of this boy, of his snarky smile and his stupid answers to simple questions. If Stan hadn’t come out, Eddie would have thought that boy was a dream. He sure looked like one.

Eddie goes home with Stan, is quiet in the car, contemplative. Lets Stan talk about how Bill and him have been best friends since they were five, and how Ben and Mike are so nice. And Eddie hums along, not too involved but involved enough. And they trudge up the stairs of Stan’s house side-by-side, sneakily tiptoe to his bedroom as if not to wake their parents, and Eddie collapses on the bottom bunk, Stan on the top. Sighing, Eddie blinks into the dark night. Neither boy reached to turn on the light upon their entrance, but it’s okay. The darkness is comforting in Eddie’s exhaustion, the wind blowing the curtains side-to-side, a soothing melody in the quiet. And, so comfortable, but still searching, Eddie cannot refrain from asking Stan the same question he did earlier in the day, when the sun had been out and there had been a strawberry ice cream cone enclosed in his clammy hands; he asks, “Who was that guy, Stan?”

And Stan replies from the top bunk, so practiced, “I already told you… I don’t know.”

 

 

Eddie loves ice cream. So naturally, the ice cream shop is the first place he applies for a job. The manager there, Stacey, looks mildly impressed by Eddie’s resume (he worked briefly at a bakery in Derry, and has a striking amount of community service hours), and decides to hire him on the spot. “We don’t usually do this,” she tells him, adjusting the hat that sits upon her brown wavy hair, “But we’re understaffed and the summers are usually pretty busy. I’ll get you a uniform and you’ll start working immediately.” And Eddie is quite pleased with that, nodding and listening to Stacey as she recites the rules of working at Scoops N’ Smiles. Once Eddie is changed into his uniform, he gets a little nervous, but watches as Stacey demonstrates how to use the soft serve machine. “It’s pretty easy,” she insists. “You’ll get the hang of it. Ice cream of the day is to the right of the cash register. Don’t forget to tell customers about it. You can read, right?” To which Eddie huffs a dry laugh, because _she’s joking right?_ But she blinks at him, blankly, and he quickly collects himself and nods obediently.

She puts him to work at the counter. The morning is slow. He makes a few cones for some younger kids, and gets re-familiar with working a cash register. It is a relatively boring job, he quickly decides.

But it gets a lot less boring when the boy from the red mustang walks in. Immediately Eddie perks up, straightens his back and sets his hands on the counter, trying to act as cool as possible even though he’s dressed in a blue polo shirt, white slacks, and a strawberry pink hat with an embroidered ice cream cone across the front. The boy looks at him, and a slow, amused smile takes over his lips. Eddie’s heart sinks in embarrassment as the boy chuckles, but Eddie cannot exactly blame him. He _does_ look pretty ridiculous.

“Funny running into you here,” the boy says, still grinning. He leans against the counter, with his chin pressed against the palm of his right hand, perky. “Nice get-up, stud. Very sexy.”

Eddie tries not to blush. (Key word: tries.)

“It really seems like you’re following me,” Eddie states, completely forgetting to treat this boy as a regular customer. The boy’s expression does not change, not even a little.

“Maybe I am,” the boy shoots back. And he leans in closer to Eddie, close enough that their faces are far too close, and Eddie remembers that they are _strangers._ They have only met two other times, and Eddie has yet to even find out the boy’s name. But… even so, Eddie doesn’t lean away. He lets the boy’s breath fan across his lips, and watches as the boy’s curly hair dips down at the position he is standing in. Lets the boy look, because it seems as though that is all Eddie knows to do. And then the boy takes his chapped bottom lip into his mouth, runs his tongue across it, gaze seeping into Eddie, memorizing every chapter of his soul, and then the boy asks, in a hushed, shameful whisper, “What are you gonna do about it?”

Only when the boy leans back, and laughs properly, does Eddie uncurl his fingers from the edge of the counter and let out a deep breath, shoulders sagging. Because the boy had been fucking with him the whole time _._ Eddie narrows his eyes, bites his lip. Yet before he can say anything, the boy changes the subject, asking, “Hey, you’re friends with Stanley, right?”

 _Okay,_ Eddie thinks, _this is interesting._

“He’s my cousin,” Eddie clarifies, hesitance resonating within his slow tone. “Why?”

“Oh,” the boy says, thoughtful. He stands up tall and digs his hands into the pockets of his boldly colored jacket, and Eddie is curious if he ever takes that thing off; the summer heat is terrible, even in his light uniform. “And you’re staying with him for the summer?”

At this, Eddie is stumped. What is he to say to a question like that? Does he lie or tell the truth to this boy neither he or Stanley (supposedly) knows personally?

He just nods. Which prompts the stranger to say, “You like adventure, or do you have a stick up your butt like Stanley?” And Eddie doesn’t know what to make of this. Of the way the stranger has his head tilted to the side, lips parted, stare heavy.

And Eddie also doesn’t want to be lame.

“Adventure is cool,” he says, which is totally _not_ what someone who likes adventure would say.

“Cool,” the boy says.

“Cool,” Eddie echoes, feeling stupid. “Do you want ice cream, or…?”

“I’m good,” the boy says, and he hits the counter with his hand, winking. “See you soon.”

And the rest of the day goes by in a blur. Eddie serves up some ice cream, fakes a smile, and then is released around dinnertime. He drives himself home with his uncle’s car (which he had asked to borrow for the day and been filled with relief when Donald had agreed), and says hello to his mother who is _still_ sitting at the dining room table (he wonders if she even stood up since he left around ten). Eddie marches upstairs and undoes the top few buttons on his uniform before collapsing on his bed. It doesn’t take long for sleep to claim him, and he barely hears when Stan comes in the room and tells him it’s time to eat.

He doesn’t get up for dinner.

He thinks he would have slept through until morning, if it weren’t for the knocking at Stan’s bedroom window at an ungodly hour. So Eddie wakes with a short groan, and fluttering eyes, gaze darting toward the darkness roaring inside from out. At first, he ignores it, turns on his side and closes his eyes again. But the knocking continues. And he blinks awake, turning on his back so he can stare upwards at the boards of Stan’s bed. Does he wake Stan up? Ask if knocking on his window late at night is a regular occurrence?

Eddie decides to do neither, and instead, pulls himself on wobbly legs and staggers over to the window. Squinting, he tries to make out the figure standing below the large tree in Stan’s back garden. The stranger is throwing rocks. Eddie narrows his eyes. _Red mustang boy._

At the sight of him, Eddie wants to yell, and scold him, but he bites his tongue because Stan is sleeping right there. If Stan woke up and saw this boy—Eddie shudders. That is something he does _not_ want to witness. The boy wears his jacket, and a wicked grin, as he beckons Eddie to come down to him, waving his arms and hands rapidly. Raising his palm, Eddie forms a _stop_ sign. And expectedly, the boy does not listen. Sighing quietly, Eddie sends a quick glance back at Stan on the top bunk. He is curled up in his blanket, oblivious to what is unraveling before him.

 _I’ll just go downstairs to tell him to go away,_ Eddie thinks, and he pauses for a moment, _how does he know where Stan lives?_

Regardless, Eddie tiptoes out of Stan’s bedroom, down the staircase, and out the front door. He’s quite stealthy, he learns, as he leaves the door open a smidge so he can get back inside once this is all sorted out. The boy is waiting on the porch for Eddie, and Eddie stares at him in disbelief, still dressed in his silly uniform from earlier, though that seems to go unnoticed by both of them.

And all the boy says is, “I need to borrow your car.”

Eddie really can’t believe this.

“What?” Eddie questions.

“You drove to work,” the boy states. “I know you have a car.”

“It’s my uncle’s car…?” Eddie says, a lilt in his voice. He doesn’t know what this boy is hinting at. “You have a car. I’ve seen it. The red mustang.”

“I don’t have it right now,” he replies. “I need a car.” That is when it hits Eddie. This boy, this _stranger_ is implying Eddie help him out, steal his uncle’s car and give him a quick ride to wherever.

“I don’t even know your name,” Eddie says, because it’s true. Why should he help someone who won’t even share as simple a fact as a name?

“My friends call me Trashmouth,” the boy says. “Come on. _Please,_ Eds.”

_Eds?_

“That’s not my name,” Eddie says wearily. “And I’m not calling you that. Leave now; if my mom or Stan’s parents wake up, I’ll be grounded for the rest of my life.”

“ _Eddie_ ,” the boy says, and it sounds like a plead now. “Just—fuck _._ I just—let me borrow your car.”

“It’s not mine. Are you even listening to what I’m saying?”

“Please!” The boy says, raising his voice, and Eddie takes a step back, hits the back of his foot on the bottom of the front door, absentmindedly reminding himself that he can just go back inside if things get scary, or weird, or tough. But he doesn’t know what to do. The boy looks at him with something new, perhaps desperation, and he pleads, holding out a shaking hand as if Eddie will grab hold of it. He doesn’t. “Please, Eddie. I’ll owe you one; I just—I fucking need a ride! It’s too far for me to walk!”

Then it must also be too far for Eddie to travel with someone he doesn’t know. With someone nicknamed _Trashmouth_.

But then why does Eddie agree?

“Fine,” Eddie says, and a wave of relief instantly grows across the boy’s face, and he grins at Eddie, takes a step forward, grabs Eddie’s shoulders and shakes him excitedly. Eddie immediately slaps his hands away. “But I’m driving.”

“Yes, okay! Fuck. Fuck, whatever you want. Just—where is it? We need to go now.”

“Where are we even going?” Eddie questions. “And I need to,” he pauses, hands grasping at his work uniform, blush forming on his cheeks, “I need to change really quick. And grab the keys. I’ll be a few minutes.”

“Sure, sure,” the boy says, crossing his arms. He is practically beaming. “Just try to hurry. Please. _God,_ Eds, you’re the best. Fucking ace. Okay. I’ll wait here. Hurry.” Eddie is absolutely startled; he has been alive for eighteen years, and nothing this bizarre has ever happened to him, and yet he is going inside, changing into sweats, and stealing his uncle’s car keys from the kitchen counter. Taking a deep breath, only a few desperate minutes later, Eddie goes back outside and finds the strange boy smoking a cigarette on the Uris’ front porch. “You’re back,” the boy says just as Eddie says, “Come on.”

The boy follows closely behind Eddie, cigarette stuck between his thin lips, hands anxiously pulling at his curly hair. Eddie tries not to pay the boy too much mind; if he does, he’s worried he might back out, but by the time they’re both buckling their seatbelts, Eddie figures it’s too late to do that. After the car is running and he’s pulling out of the driveway, he asks, “Which way?” And the boy only says, “Drive to the end of this road and make a right. I’ll let you know where to go as we’re driving.”

“Why not just let me have an address?” Eddie asks, annoyed.

“Just trust me,” the boy says, and Eddie narrows his eyes.

“ _Trust you?_ ” Eddie scoffs. “I don’t _know_ you.”

“You don’t know me _yet,_ ” the boy replies, kicking his feet up on the car’s dashboard. Eddie leans over in his seat, one hand on the wheel, and uses his free hand to swat at the boy’s relaxed position. The boy immediately retracts his legs and lets out a hardy laugh.

“Don’t do that! This isn’t my car!” Eddie shouts. He’s beyond frustrated, and running out of patience for this guy. He’s cute, but is he really worth Eddie dragging his ass halfway across town? “Why the fuck did you come to me, anyway? We don’t even know each other.” As he adjusts his grip on the steering wheel, Eddie realizes his palms are clammy. He sighs.

“I knew you had a car.” The boy stops there, as if that is enough explanation. For some people it may be, but for Eddie, it is not. Yet he purses his lips and lets it go. Then the ride is silent, and every so often the boy will tell Eddie to turn. The boy whistles something—a tune Eddie has never heard, so he asks, “What song is that?” And when the boy turns to him, a crooked smile playing at his lips, purple bags decorating his under eyes, Eddie’s heart skips a beat. He curses hormones.

“It’s ‘Gold Dust Woman,’” the boy states. “By Fleetwood Mac? Duh?”

“I don’t know much of their stuff,” Eddie explains, and he feels a little embarrassed of his musical ignorance. In truth, he does not listen to a lot of music at all. It has never really been his thing. But judging by the look on this boy’s face, music must mean a lot to him.

“Geez! Kid, you haven’t _lived_ if you don’t know Fleetwood Mac! I’ll make you a mix with their best stuff. You got a cassette player in here, right?” However, the boy doesn’t wait for an answer; instead his clumsy hands fumble with the overhead light, which does a shitty job at illuminating their surroundings, but upon finding the cassette player in the car, the boy’s grin widens. “Perfect. I’ll try not to forget.” And then, “Last turn right here. He’s on this street.”

“He?” Eddie questions, stumped. He pulls right and then slows down, approaching a big white house that looks pricey. “Who lives here?”

“Shush,” the boy says, and he unlocks his door. “Wait right here.”

Eddie locks the doors, says, “No. Tell me who the fuck lives here.”

“Bev’s ex, okay?” The boy says, aggravated.

“Bev?” Eddie has no clue what is going on. He thinks he might die tonight, or get arrested. Or get arrested and then die.

“Beverly Marsh,” he says with a heavy sigh, hand still on the door handle. “She’s my good friend. I’ll introduce you sometime.”

There is a beat of silence. The sound of a car door being opened. Eddie attempts to stop the boy one final time, “It’s way past curfew. We’ll get in trouble if we get caught.”

“So don’t get caught,” the boy says, and he shuts the door just like that. Eddie stares, mouth drawn open from shock. He watches as the boy trudges up to the front door, scavenges for the key under the doormat, and unlocks the door as if he lives there. Sinking into his seat, Eddie shuts off the car and keeps his head down in case there are cops around. No cops come. The lights in the house are still off. Five minutes must pass, and Eddie really considers driving away and going back to sleep.

All of a sudden, all the lights in the white house flash on. Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up, his hand instantly darting for the gearshift because he is _outta here._ And apparently, so is the boy he came with, because he is bursting through the front door and tumbling his way over to where Eddie’s car is parked. The car is on when the boy opens the door and slams it closed. He says, “Drive now!” And that’s enough for Eddie. He speeds away like he has never even known a speed limit.

Once they are far enough away, the boy sighs in relief.

“That was a close one, huh?” he asks, and all Eddie can do is stare at him in disbelief. Who _is_ this guy?

“What the fuck was that?” Eddie asks.

“That guy wasn’t good to Bev… want a smoke?” The boy digs through his jacket pocket and pulls out two cigarettes. He puts one to sleep on his bottom lip and tilts the second toward Eddie, an eyebrow quirked.

“I don’t smoke,” Eddie says blankly.

The boy grins, boyish, “’Course ya don’t.”

“I’m going home,” is all Eddie can manage. His eyes are heavy with exhaustion. “Where should I leave you?”

“Stan’s place is fine,” the boy states, rolling down the window to let out his smoke. “I owe you one, Eds. I’ll tell you that.” Shaking his head, Eddie ignores the boy. He’s had enough of this. Fuck this guy, honestly. Fuck this nameless guy who happens to be exactly Eddie’s type. Who is probably not gay at all.

When Eddie pulls into the Uris’ driveway, the boy is eager to leave. He opens the door immediately, shuts it quietly. Eddie does the same, and turns to face him, but the boy is already walking off. He waves wildly, smiling stupidly, and Eddie goes inside without waving back. He walks sluggishly through the kitchen, and up the stairs, and lies down on top of the covers.

And in the morning, when Eddie meets Stan at the dining room table for breakfast, Stan asks why he looks so tired.

Eddie doesn’t say.

 

 

Eddie is back working the cash register, pulling his shirt collar away from his neck in a foolish attempt to cool off. It’s a slow day today, which Eddie prefers, because with a rush of people comes a rush of anxiety. Stacey talks his ear off on these types of days, but Eddie doesn’t mind so much. Since Sonia raised Eddie, he is a master of tuning people out. But thankfully, Stacey goes into the back to organize the new shipment of ice cream, leaving Eddie to mind the front.

The door unexpectedly opens. A girl walks in. Her look is lively, dressed in a blue shirt that stops just above her belly button, red high-waisted shorts, white sneakers, a mop of fiery curls water falling down her back. She looks vaguely familiar to Eddie, but he figures that she has probably just come in for ice cream before. Lots of people come and go. As she approaches the counter, Eddie puts on a fake smile and says, “Welcome to Scoops N’ Smiles, where each ice cream flavor is guaranteed to make you smile.”

The girl snorts a laugh and says, “Is that a promise?”

Eddie glances over his shoulder and sees the door to the back is closed, so he playfully leans closer to the girl, who tilts her ear to him as if she is amused by what he might say. Eddie says, “Honestly? The ice cream here is pretty average. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“Oh no.” The girl shakes her head. “Of course I didn’t. A little birdy told me.”

“But, I’m required to tell everybody that slogan, so,” shrugging, Eddie continues, “It is what it is.”

“You’re right there,” the girl says, smiling. Her teeth are pearly white, straight as can be. “I’m Beverly Marsh. Nice to meet you.” Eddie freezes, blinks. _This is Beverly Marsh? That guy’s best friend?_ “You’re a new face in Leeside. What brings you here, stranger?”

“Uh, I’m visiting family…” he says. “I-I’m Eddie. Eddie Kaspbrak.”

“Nice to meet ya, Eddie! Now can I get a scoop of the strawberry in a waffle cone… it’s average, but your place is the only ice cream shop for miles. Small towns, you know how it is.”

“I sure do,” Eddie says, still a bit shaken up. “Yeah. I’ll get it right now… it’s gonna be two fifty eight.” Eddie goes over to the ice cream machine to allow Beverly some time to gather the money. While he is spiraling her cone, he hears the door open and close again. With a quick glance, Eddie is happily surprised to see Bill. And Bill looks happily surprised to see Beverly. Eddie furrows his brows, and tries to listen in on their conversation without seeming suspicious.

“H-Hi Beverly,” Bill says. “I haven’t s-seen you in a w-w-while.”

“Bill, it has been a while. What have you and the boys been up to?”

“Oh, y-you know… roller-skating. Movies. T-The usual.”

“Nice.” There is a beat of awkward silence.

“How’s…?” Bill trails off. Just by listening in on this conversation, Eddie can tell there is tough tension between the two of them. _I really ought to go over there soon,_ Eddie thinks, as he finishes off Beverly’s order.

“Yeah,” Beverly says quickly. “He’s, ya know… the same.”

Eddie goes over to the two of them and passes Beverly her ice cream. She smiles at him and trades him the money. Eddie punches it into the register routinely.

“H-Hey Ed,” Bill says, grinning shyly. Eddie mirrors his look.

“Hey Bill,” Eddie says.

“Thanks, Eddie,” Beverly interjects. She glances at Bill. “See you, Bill.”

Both Eddie and Bill turn to watch her on her way out. Eddie wants to ask how they know each other, who they were talking about, but Bill speaks before Eddie can even try, “M-Mike and I a-a-are seeing a movie t-tonight. S-Stan is working, b-but do you wanna come?”

Eddie says yes in a heartbeat.

 

 

Eddie thinks it has been two weeks of him working at Scoops N’ Smiles, but really, who’s counting? (He is; he never wants summer to end). Nothing has changed, really. There are busy days, and slow days, and days where Eddie has off, though there are fewer of those because he is not brave enough to ask for more. And everyday, the red mustang Eddie has grown curious of, parks right across the street of the shop. The boy is usually in the driver’s seat, but sometimes he is outside, leaning against the driver’s door. Eddie only knows because he looks, and he only looks because it is _right there._

(The boy doesn’t come in anymore. He doesn’t even look Eddie’s way. Eddie feels oddly hurt, or cheated, something ridiculous like that. He wishes he didn’t feel this way.)

 

 

A week later, Eddie convinces Mike to go roller-skating with him. Eddie loves the roller rink. He goes most days after his shift, or before, if they’re open. He has become quite the roller-skater, according to the guy who works at the counter—Derek. A senior in high school. Eddie is only a junior this year. Derek is quite nice, and clean, and he irons his clothes everyday. Eddie thinks that’s neat.

When Mike and Eddie enter that night, Derek waves at them and Eddie waves back. Eddie goes over to the counter to get their rollerblades because Mike wants to go get a snack from the vending machine. As Derek searches for them, he proposes something to Eddie, “You’re here so often you should just get your own pair of shoes.”

“Oh.” Eddie smiles, feeling a little embarrassed. “Well—I’m going back home at the end of summer, so it wouldn’t be practical.” Derek puts the shoes on the counter, nodding.

“Isn’t there a roller rink where you’re from?” Derek asks.

“I don’t think so,” Eddie says. “Maybe.”

“You’re too good to give it up now.” Derek rings up the total cost and Eddie hands him the money. Eddie meets Mike by the bench. He offers his last few chips to Eddie, but Eddie declines, and pulls on his rollerblades. He’s so excited he can barely take it anymore, and is even so eager that while Mike is tying his shoelaces, he skates over to the main floor. Mike meets him there in a few minutes, and they skate around. Eddie has gotten good at skating backwards, and even teases Mike for being too slow. Mike only laughs at that.

“You’ve gotten really good at this,” Mike says to Eddie, and Eddie bashfully rubs the back of his neck, still moving, always moving, never stopping. He spins to show off and then laughs, giddy.

“I’ve been practicing is all,” is all Eddie says.

“You sell yourself too short,” Mike tells him.

“I’ll try not to,” Eddie says, skating ahead of Mike again, following the fencing of the main floor, eyes focused on the space ahead of him. If Eddie weren’t so afraid, he would try to do a jump. He’s seen people do them before. But he doesn’t think he’s that advanced yet. Quick learner or not, Eddie still falls victim to his cowardice.

A song begins to play. It is slower than the songs the roller rink usually plays, with the clear sound of a bass and cymbal. A haunting voice follows the beat. Eddie wants to know what song is playing. He’s never heard anything like it before.

So he skates over to the fencing closest to the counter and raises his voice to ask Derek, “What song is this?”

Derek replies instantly, “’Gold Dust Woman.’”

And it makes Eddie think.

 

 

Bill is having a party—Eddie assumes this means a small gathering, but when he and Stan show up, he is shocked to find that there seems to be a hundred people here. It even takes Eddie and Stan a while to find Bill and their other friends, but they do, and they are huddled in the kitchen, near the fridge, mixing drinks and laughing too loud. It is no secret that they are intoxicated, but who at this party _isn’t?_

“Guys!” Bill cheers, grinning dopily. “W-Welcome. W-Want a drink?”

“I’m mixing,” Ben interjects. “Gotten pretty good at it, too.” Stan politely declines, and so everybody turns to look at Eddie. He agrees only because he wants to try it. He really has no interest in alcohol, or drugs, or anything that has a high. It is only a preference. Eddie doesn’t care what other people do.

Ben mixes Eddie a quick drink, and he hands it over swiftly, waiting for Eddie to take a sip, so he does, and he gags but attempts to cover it up with a small cough. He grins at Ben as if he likes the taste. Perhaps Ben knows he’s faking, but he smiles right back and says, “You drink?”

“Occasionally,” Eddie lies.

“You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to,” Stan tells Eddie.

“He’s right.” Mike hums. “Don’t feel like you have to do anything. Just have fun.” _Just have fun,_ Eddie’s thoughts echo as his friends walk off to the living room. _That’s a lot easier said than done._

And Eddie tries. He really does. He stands near people awkwardly, and tries to make more friends, but it is just too much. It is too forced, too uncomfortable. And his heart thumps uncomfortably against his chest. He runs a hand through his hair, tries to maintain even breathing, but before he knows it he is wheezing, and the music drains it out. Eddie grabs for the wall, and leans against it in attempt to be grounded, but it is not enough. He needs to get away from these pushing bodies and roaring voices.

_The bathroom._

Eddie finds one pretty easily. Though it is within somebody’s bedroom, so Eddie just sits on the edge of the stranger’s bed to catch his breath. To convince himself he _doesn’t_ need his inhaler. _Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Steady, just like that._

Breathing a sigh of relief, Eddie fists the chest of his shirt.

He glances around the bedroom, finally relaxed, and notices the childish wallpaper. It is green, with painted zoo animals. Very cute, fit for a young child… doesn’t Bill have a younger brother?

Shrugging, Eddie stands up from the bed and decides he might as well splash his face with some cold water while he’s near the bathroom. Walking over to the bathroom, Eddie does not think twice about knocking, or throwing the question of ‘ _is anybody in there?’_ into the night; he curls his right hand around the doorknob, and pulls it open.

He _really_ should have asked if it was occupied.

The boy with the curly hair, and the pale-dry lips, turns his head to look at Eddie and where he stands near the bathroom door. The lanky boy stands, perched over the sink to inspect his reflection in the mirror. There is a gleam to his dark eyes, a slanted frown glued to his mouth. His fingers are long, skinny, and boney, and Eddie ponders how they would feel teasing at his side, or his neck, or caressing the side of his cheek. In the boy’s right hand is a jumbled ball of tissue, and he holds it messily in the middle of his face, aiding a nosebleed. And Eddie doesn’t know what to say, so he just doesn’t. He does what he always does when he sees this boy—this mystery boy who refuses to share his name, who disappears with no warning—he _stares_.

“You gonna come in, or what?” The boy asks suddenly. Eddie jolts at his voice, and twiddles his fingers around the doorknob before pulling it to a close. His gaze lingers on the white door for a moment, head foggy, and he licks his lips. Turning back to the boy, Eddie swallows nervously, unsure of what to say. “Well?” the boy prompts, and it is as if Eddie does not know how to speak.

“Uh,” Eddie sputters. “Sorry. I didn’t know somebody was in here.” At this, the boy at least cracks a half smile. The bloody tissue pressed against his nostrils falters at this movement, but the boy is swift in adjusting his grip.

“I’m somebody,” the boy says. Eddie’s gaze flickers from the boy’s face to his hand to the black and white tiles on the floor. And then Eddie knows what to say.

“Why haven’t you told me your name?” he asks.

“Don’t need you asking about me,” the boy replies, laughing dryly. He seems different than the last time Eddie saw him. His smile is too fake, too routine, and his eyes look dull, as if he’s just awoken from a terrible slumber. He looks… scary. The sight is uncomfortable for Eddie; the boy’s colorful clothes hang loosely off his body, and this time his funky windbreaker is tossed on the toilet seat and not across his shoulders. The boy suddenly sighs, heavily, and shakes his head slowly. Clicks his tongue, and says, “Richie. My name is Richie Tozier.”

“Richie,” Eddie repeats. Richie nods sleepily. And Eddie approaches him, treacherously slow, and he lifts his hand, watches as Richie’s eyes dart to Eddie’s small fingers, as Eddie takes the tissue away from Richie’s nose. Richie blinks, confused, and follows Eddie’s hand as he tosses out the tissue. Eddie reaches to the toilet paper roll and gets a new wad for Richie, passes it to him silently, stops him from placing it back under his nostrils by saying, “You should pinch your nose closed for a few minutes. It helps stop the bleeding.”

As Richie studies Eddie, he takes his thumb and index finger and does as he is told. Eddie nods his head. It is quiet. Eddie only has eyes for Richie. And he wants to ask so many things. Who Richie is, and why Eddie has only ever seen him by himself or with Beverly Marsh… why he stopped saying hello as of late.

“You a nurse or something?” Richie asks instead. Eddie leans against the side of the sink, eyes locked onto his acquaintance. Eddie huffs.

“Something like that,” he says. Richie smiles with his teeth, and they are a grainy pale yellow. They are gross, Eddie decides, and Richie should brush his teeth more often. Maybe then they wouldn’t be so ugly. But still, looking at Richie under the fluorescent bathroom light at Bill Denbrough’s house party, he manages to look unconventionally beautiful in all his messy features. He’s got a thin nose that puckers out at the bottom, looking almost button-ish, and thin lips, big brown eyes magnified by crooked glasses. “Why’s your nose bleeding?”

“Causality,” Richie replies with a shrug.

“Ah,” Eddie says. They sit in the silence. Bathe in it. Eddie tears his eyes away from Richie, because Richie is staring at the wall, and instead, Eddie examines the creases in his right hand. Then his front pocket. And his shoes. Then Richie’s shoes, and he notices how there are little holes scattered across the fabric.

“You should probably go,” Richie says just then, and Eddie looks back at him. Richie’s gaze is still glued to the wall, and it almost looks as if he is talking to nobody; he speaks in such a manner that it is as if Eddie didn’t ever enter the bathroom.

“What?” Eddie asks.

Richie swallows, releases his nose, rinses his bloody fingers and dabs at his nose one final time with a tissue before tossing it into the trashcan. Only then does he meet Eddie’s eyes, dry blood on his pale cupid’s bow.

“Stan wouldn’t want you to be talking to me,” Richie says. Eddie furrows his brows, crosses his arms.

“Stan told me he didn’t know you,” Eddie says, and Richie snickers, taut.

“Of course he did,” is Richie’s reply. “Fucking Stanley.”

“How do you know him?” Eddie asks. Nothing makes any sense. Why would Stan lie? What did Richie do to Stan that would make him hide away their old friendship?

“We go to school together. That’s how I know all of those guys, anyway.”

“And you used to be friends with my cousin?” There is a tightness in Eddie’s throat, a desperate want to know what happened. Stan is always polite, civil. Even with people he is not fond of, or does not know very well. That is part of what makes him Stan. This Eddie knows. So upon hearing that Richie and Stan have history, Eddie’s curiosity begins eating him.

“We used to be best friends,” Richie states, voice a little sad. It is quiet for a moment. Eddie worries he is thinking too loudly. Worries that maybe, somehow, Richie can hear the questions running through his head. With what sounds similar to a small gasp, Richie asks, “He never mentioned me?” And Eddie suddenly feels bad. Bad for this boy he doesn’t even know. For somebody his favorite cousin seems to despise.

So what is Eddie to think? _Really?_

“I don’t think so,” is all Eddie can muster, in a quiet, hushed voice.

“Of course he didn’t,” Richie mutters, and he bangs a fist on the sink, near the faucet. The toothbrushes bounce in Richie’s annoyance. “He doesn’t like me anymore.”

“Why’s that?”

“Thinks I’m _too much_ ,” Richie says, and a slow smile pushes to his lips, though it is one of plasticity. “Whatever the fuck that means. Whatever. _Fuck_ him—sorry, I know he’s your cousin.”

“It’s okay.” Eddie doesn’t know what else to say.

Richie is quiet with his next words, which resemble an empty plead; he tells Eddie, “You don’t wanna get mixed up with me.”

And Eddie says, “Are you really trying to tell me what I want?”

But then a knock comes at the bathroom door, startling the two boys and ripping them from their conversation. Their heads turn in unison, afraid the door may push open and they will be caught in the middle of _whatever_ _this is_. It doesn’t.

“Eddie, you in there?” Calls out Mike. Eddie breathes a sigh of relief that Mike has the decency to ask before barging in.

Turning back to Richie, Eddie parts his lips to say something, perhaps a _see you later,_ or _nice talking to you._ But Richie beats him to the punch with, “Groupie calls, stud.”

Eddie blinks, and the door pushes open. His eyes dart to the door, and he stops it from opening any more with the palm of his hand, slipping out through the small crack and meeting Mike’s gaze. Eddie smiles at Mike, trying to look as casual as possible, and asks, “Hey, what’s up?”

“Uh,” Mike sputters. “I was just checking up on you. Stan said you don’t drink a lot.”

“Oh. Thanks,” Eddie replies. “I don’t really, but… it’s okay.”

“I get it.” Mike grins. “Parties aren’t really my thing either. Ben and I were thinking about going in the back garden, if you wanna come? There aren’t so many people out there.”

“Yes please,” Eddie breathes. And then, a question settles in his mind, and Eddie has never been very good at keeping things to himself, so he allows it to tumble from between his lips. He asks, “What do you know about Richie Tozier?”

Mike’s eyebrows shoot up. “I used to be friends with him,” he says.

“When?” Eddie questions.

“Just this past year. But we don’t really talk anymore,” Mike says.

_How come?_

“Why?” Mike asks.

“I just—heard some kids talking about him, and I’ve never heard that name before which is odd… since Leeside is a small town, and all.”

“Right.” Mike doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it slide, leading Eddie out to the garden to meet Ben. And when the night comes to an end, which happens sooner than Eddie is expecting, and Stan comes outside, ready to drive home, Eddie doesn’t know what to think. His cousin smiles at him, polite, sweet, in that Stan way that is so familiar, that reminds Eddie of family reunions and barbecuing. But Richie doesn’t get this courtesy, that smile. He doesn’t get anything from Stan, from any of his old friends. So _why?_ What did Richie do that was so terrible?

Eddie just doesn’t know.

 

 

Now Eddie really feels like Richie is following him.

They haven’t spoken since Bill’s party, which was only a few days ago. Eddie returns to work, Richie nowhere in sight. As the days start to pass, Eddie grows doubtful of discovering what exactly Richie Tozier did that was so awful. _If he did anything at all._ Stan _is_ kind of overdramatic sometimes…

But today is different; from the minute Scoops N’ Smiles opens, Richie’s red mustang is parked across the street. And Eddie a perfect view of it through the window. He watches Richie talk to a tall man through the window of his car. Richie sits in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, one hand drawing his cigarette smoke outside. The man is ducked down, so his face is not visible. Eddie’s eyebrows furrow as Richie drops his cigarette on the ground to fumble for something on the seat next to him. Then, he turns back to the man empty handed, looking utterly sheepish. The man says something, and then walks off. The exchange leaves Eddie curious, and his eyes stay glued to the red mustang, mind wandering, thoughts trailing off…

The chime of the front door breaks Eddie from his trance, and his eyes adjust to what he had been staring at: an empty, parked car. _Where the hell did Richie go?_ And Eddie purses his lips, but stands up tall, gaze darting to the customer who has just entered. It is, of course, Richie _._ Eddie wonders why the world works in such a strange, unexpected way.

“Stud,” Richie says, approaching the counter. The pastel pink counter is the only thing that separates the two teenagers, and the single thought makes Eddie’s throat tighten, his hands clench. There is the faint stench of sour milk in the air, because Eddie has been slacking off all day and has yet to wipe down the tables. Eddie’s hand darts for the rag (solely to keep busy) tucked away in a cubby underneath the cash register, and he coughs into the crook of his arm as he slings the rag across the counter, beginning to wipe it down. Glancing up at Richie, Eddie says, “You know, for someone who hangs around an ice cream shop, I’ve never actually seen you eat ice cream.”

Richie cracks a grin, smiling brightly with his ugly teeth.

Eddie’s heart tugs at the sight of this, and he finds himself shamelessly wondering if part of Richie is glad to see Eddie, like part of Eddie is.

“Why are you here?” Eddie asks quietly, still wiping the counter. “Stalking me?” he mocks. “I thought you were laying off because of Stan, or whatever… What even happened between you guys?” As Eddie pulls his hand to a stop, the counter now damp with cleanliness, Richie shakes his head and seemingly takes his bottom lip between his teeth as solace.

“Stanley and I just had our differences, like most. Some people just aren’t cut out to be friends, ya know?” Richie replies, the words fluid on his tongue. But then, his expression shifts, eyes darkening, widening, eyebrows raising. He says, “Why? You didn’t mention me to him, did you?” The panic on Richie’s face is evident, and only prompts Eddie’s curiosity more. _What would Stan have done if I mentioned talking with Richie?_

“No. I didn’t,” Eddie says, and he watches as Richie’s face fills with relief, as he exhales deeply and raises his left hand to press over his heart. There is a beat of silence as Richie regroups, as Eddie thinks of something else to say. “Your parents gave you your car back.”

“Yeah,” is Richie’s dull reply.

And Eddie doesn’t know what else to say, so his mouth runs without his brain confirming the idea first, saying, “So… do you want ice cream or not?”

Richie looks considering, and after an awkward, thoughtful, quiet minute, he says, “If it means spending more time with you, then yeah. I’ll have an ice cream.”

Heat rises to Eddie’s cheeks, burns there, and he prays that a rosy color won’t sprout amongst his freckles... that would be so embarrassing. But he manages a small smile nonetheless. He knows Richie is smiling down at him, too. Flattered, Eddie mumbles through grinning lips, “Don’t get too smiley. I’m making you pay.”

“What?” Richie stammers, feigning shock. “I don’t get the friends and family discount?”

“You’re neither a friend or family,” Eddie shoots back.

Richie is a fast thinker, undoubtedly; he quickly hits Eddie with, “Let’s change that—let me take you out tonight.”

Wide-eyed, Eddie stares at Richie. He doesn’t know if Richie is being serious, or if he’s just playing around. But with this pregnant silence, and the unwavering flirtatious look Richie wears, Eddie figures that Richie is just trying to make a friend. From what Eddie knows of him, he does not have very many, and Eddie knows what that’s like—being alone more often than not. And so, Eddie slings the moist, dirty cleaning rag over his shoulder and crosses his arms, standing tall and peering at Richie with a heedful look, and he says, “Okay. Fine.”

“Great,” Richie says.

It’s _one night_ … How bad could Richie be?


	2. during

“I’m just working late today, Ma,” Eddie says as he tucks the telephone closer to his ear. He is standing at the corner of the street he works on, in a telephone booth that has probably never been used to make calls, judging by its look and smell. Eddie shudders. He doesn’t want to know what people do in here.

“But why, Eddie?” His mother asks, using that tone Eddie hates so much. Shifting on his feet, he leans against the booth’s wall and clicks his tongue.

“I told you already.” He sighs, and rubs his forehead. Talking to his mother is such a drag. “We’re understaffed and Stacey needs me to work tonight. You know we’re open late on Saturday nights. I’ll be home at eleven,” he lies, and before his mother can say anything else, he hangs up the phone. He knows he’ll pay for this later, but can’t find it in himself to care right now. He’s got a cute boy waiting for him just outside this telephone booth. Richie meets his gaze, offers Eddie a close-mouthed smile, and Eddie exits the booth. “Okay. We’re all set to go.”

“Perfect,” Richie says, and he reaches up between his chest to unzip his jacket a little. Eddie watches with furrowed brows, and can’t help himself from asking, “Why are you even wearing that thing? It’s, like, eighty degrees out.”

“Oh, Edward,” Richie sings. “It’s part of my brand.”

“That’s not my name.”

“Edmund?” Richie guesses, head tilted to the side childishly. Eddie rolls his eyes, but shakes his head. “Spaghedward?”

“Can it,” Eddie replies.

“Understood.” Richie nods obediently and points a finger across the street, to his car. “Let’s drive.” As Richie begins walking over to his red mustang, Eddie can only follow. He gets in the passenger’s seat and Richie gets in the driver’s seat. After buckling his seatbelt, Eddie looks over at Richie (who has just finished adjusting his mirrors) and swats his shoulder lightly. Richie looks to him, brows drawn together in question.

“Seatbelt,” Eddie reminds him, because part of Eddie doubts Richie ever remembers to wear one. So Richie buckles himself in and moves his hand to the gearshift, gaze drifting over to Eddie one final time.

“Hope you like movies,” he says as he pulls out of his parking spot. “We’re going to the best drive-in ever.” And Eddie can’t help but smile a little, just to himself, because this feels so much like a date. He _knows_ it most likely isn’t, but that doesn’t mean he can’t indulge himself a little. Glancing at Richie, Eddie catches his eye for a split second. They both smile. Richie looks back at the road. Eddie sinks a little further into his seat. _Is this a date? It’s not a date. No way… right?_

“When did you get your ears pierced?” Eddie asks, desperate to quit this silent act they’ve both got going on.

“A year back, I think.” Eddie wonders what _he_ would look like with earrings, because Richie’s look really good. They’re simple, but cute, and seem very in character for him. “Bev did them for me in the school bathroom. If you look closely you can see they’re a little uneven because I couldn’t sit still.” Richie shrugs. “It is what it is. I think it gives it character. Bevvy paints my nails, too,” Richie says, waving his black painted fingernails in front of Eddie’s face.

“Is Beverly your girlfriend?” Eddie sputters, because Richie talks about her a lot. It would make _sense._ And it would also give Eddie some sort of confirmation as to what this movie really is. But apparently this is a very silly thing to ask, because Richie full on _cackles._ He lets his hands fly off the wheel to double over in laughter. Eddie feels embarrassed, fingers shooting out to get a grip of the wheel as Richie continues to put on a show. “Richie! The wheel!” Eddie shouts, staring at the road. He drives in a straight line, unsure of where exactly Richie is taking them. Thankfully, Richie reaches to put his hand back on the wheel, and accidentally places it on top of Eddie’s hand. While this makes Eddie blush, it just makes Richie grin, crooked teeth and all.

Once Richie has gained full control of the wheel again, and Eddie’s hands are back in his lap, Richie explains, “Beverly’s my bestest bud. She’s great and all, but there’s too many things about her that don’t turn me on.”

This prompts Eddie to ask, “Like what?”

“Well for starters, she’s got tits.”

And it’s so quiet.

“What?” Eddie asks softly. But Richie is still smiling that same smile from before, and it makes Eddie feel a bit scared, unguarded, like maybe Richie is mocking him or something. It has never been a challenge for people to read Eddie’s sexuality before, or to at least make some sort of assumption about it, with the clothes he wears and his interests and the way he speaks. (Kids in Derry used to call him _Girlyboy._ Some of them still do.)

“She’s a girl,” Richie states.

“Yeah,” Eddie replies. And Richie sighs heavily as he puts his blinker on, makes a right turn to the drive-in.

“I don’t like girls like that. I’m sure you understand,” Richie says. Eddie immediately clenches his fists, and strings his eyebrows together. _What the hell?_

“What is that supposed to mean?” Eddie questions.

“You know what it means,” Richie says, pulling his car into a nice viewing spot on the grass. Eddie stares at him in disbelief, jaw slack and eyes wide. “Don’t play coy; it’s an ugly look on you.”

“You’re a dick,” Eddie spits.

“You are what you eat,” Richie says calmly as he shrugs a shoulder up to his ear.

Now Eddie cannot help the redness that draws to his cheeks. He purses his lips and crosses his arms, feeling too bare for Richie’s heavy brown eyes, and huffs angrily as if to prove a point. He refuses to look at Richie, as if not making eye contact will save him from a bit of the humiliation he feels. In all honesty, Eddie is pissed off. He’s annoyed, and disgusted. All by this boy he is only just getting to know. But then… there is part of Eddie that likes Richie. That wants to get to know the person beneath all the emotion-shielding comedy. And Richie doesn’t like girls. So there _is_ a chance…

“You can’t be…” Eddie trails off, but Richie seems to understand.

“Queer?” Richie finishes for him. “Oh I am. Probably the queerest in Leeside. Ask around. Anyone’ll tell you.” Eddie blinks at Richie. Richie sighs. “Do you really think I would have asked you out to a movie if I wasn’t into you?”

“Oh,” is all Eddie can think to say, scrunching his oversized red shirt in two fists.

“You are gay, right?” Richie asks hurriedly. Eddie looks over at him, reads the worrisome expression he wears and the panic in his eyes. It renders Eddie speechless. “Because if you aren’t—all that shit I said about being queer isn’t true. Ha.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being gay,” Eddie says in a soft voice. “Even if I wasn’t gay, you shouldn’t take back telling me you are.”

“Oh, okay,” is Richie’s reply, and then he adds, “By the way, here’s the mix I promised you. Fleetwood Mac’s best.” And he reaches over, pushes the glove compartment open, and digs around until he finds a cassette tape. He hands it to Eddie with a close-mouthed smile. It reads _For stud_ across the label. Eddie narrows his eyes and takes the tape, opening it up and examining the cassette. “Be sure to tell me whatcha think.”

“Right,” Eddie replies, putting the cassette tape in the front pocket of his jean shorts. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

And they buy snacks. They get settled in the white leather seats of Richie’s car. Eddie holds the bucket of popcorn, though Richie is the one who eats most of it. During the movie, he talks to Eddie about the acting and the backgrounds, anything and everything that is on the screen, as if he cannot even keep his mouth shut for one lousy film. And he stretches his hand into the popcorn bucket every few minutes, taking handfuls at a time. Richie doesn’t look at Eddie once. As if pulling his eyes from the movie screen would kill him. But Eddie can’t take his eyes off of Richie. He watches every kernel of popcorn hit Richie’s tongue, and admires the curves of Richie’s mouth as he talks, and he grows flustered when Richie extends his arm across both of Eddie’s shoulders.

Eddie doesn’t care that Richie talks throughout the whole movie. He doesn’t care that Richie wipes his buttery fingers off on his blue jeans. He can’t find himself to care about any of that… and Eddie doesn’t know Richie well enough, but he longs to settle his hand on Richie’s chest, to kiss him on the open mouth, feel Richie’s breath on his neck. Because being with Richie Tozier makes Eddie feel adventurous.

And _oh,_ Eddie thinks, _the others don’t know what they’re missing._

 

 

“I l-l-love Ping-Pong. I c-can’t believe G-G-Georgie convinced our p-parents to buy this,” Bill says from across the table. Eddie stares at the Ping-Pong table in awe. His mother would _never_ get him something like this. As soon as Bill brought the table in, he had given Stan a call and invited him and Eddie over to test it out.

“It’s really cool, Bill,” Eddie says.

“We’ll have to use it a lot before school starts,” Stan states. “Once classes start who knows how much free time we’ll have. Junior year is supposed to be really tough.”

“R-Right,” Bill replies, retrieving the two Ping-Pong paddles from the cardboard box on the garage floor. He hands the red paddle to Eddie, keeps the blue for himself, and tells Stan, “Y-you can play after.” Stan rolls his eyes but goes toward the middle of the table as if to mediate the game. The garage is silent as Bill lifts his paddle, ball in his opposite hand, and _swings._ The ball swooshes to Eddie’s side, and Eddie is quick on his feet, hits it so it flies back to Bill. Bill misses with his next swing, and curses as he turns around to search for the ball.

“When does your summer break end?” Eddie asks anybody willing to answer.

Stan speaks up, “September fifth.”

“Oh. Mine ends later, on the ninth.”

“L-Lucky,” Bill pipes up, back on his end of the table. “Y-You serve.” They play Ping-Pong and maintain mild conversation: “W-What’s Derry l-l-like, Eddie?”

“Boring.” That is the best word Eddie can think of to describe his hometown. It is full of creeps and bullies, people who look at Eddie funny and shove his shoulder too roughly for it to be an accident. Main Street has a string of shops that look too welcoming, taunting. Eddie shudders just thinking about it. “The only exciting thing that happens is the fourth of July festival. Which we miss every year, but it’s whatever.” Shrugging, Eddie scores another point for his side.

“W-We have one of t-t-those. It’s m-mostly just m-music and l-little kid games.”

Eddie glances up. “Do you guys usually go?”

“Sometimes,” Bill answers. “I-It depends who’s g-g-going. S-Stan doesn’t r-really like it…. I h-hang out with B-Beverly when I go.”

 _Beverly._ The name strikes a chord in Eddie’s memory.

“Beverly,” Eddie says thoughtfully. “I think she came in for ice cream one time. Who is she?”

Bill says, “J-Just an old friend,” at the same time Stan says, “She’s nobody.” The two boys look at each other, and the Ping-Pong ball falls on the floor of Bill’s side again, though this time no one seems to take notice. Stan clears his throat awkwardly, and fakes a smile as he turns his attention to Eddie, “She’s just from school.”

Eddie nods, evidently unconvinced. Bill doesn’t say anything more, just keeps his eyes trained on the blue paddle grasped within his thin fingers. Eddie coughs, and breaks the silence with, “You wanna play, Stan?”

“Sure,” Stan replies, and Eddie hands over the red paddle.

“Bye, Stacey! See you tomorrow!” Eddie calls out so that the manager will hear it from the back room. He hears a faint goodbye in return and ducks under the counter to make his exit. Pushing the ice cream shop’s door open, Eddie’s eyes immediately find Richie’s, and Eddie smiles. As Eddie makes his way over to Richie, a slow and gentle grin makes its way onto Richie’s face. “Hey, Rich,” Eddie says once they’re standing directly opposite each other. Richie towers over Eddie, so Eddie has to crane his neck to get a good look. He doesn’t mind that much.

“Hiya, stud,” Richie replies. “What a cute look this is…” Eddie blushes and takes off his hat. Since he’s just gotten off his shift and didn’t want to make Richie wait, he’s still dressed head to toe in his embarrassing work uniform. Richie ruffles Eddie’s blond hair. Eddie narrows his eyes. “You look like a cotton candy lollipop. How many licks does it take to get to—“

“ _Don’t_ finish that sentence,” Eddie says, swatting Richie lightly on his stomach. “I have clothes in my bag, idiot. I’m changing later.”

“Nice, nice… Speaking of later, where are you taking me?” Richie asks. Eddie smiles cutely, feeling giddy on his anxious feet. He can barely stand still. Richie chuckles and steadies his hands on Eddie’s shoulders as if to try and relax him. “What? Tell me, Eds.”

“We’re going to the roller rink,” Eddie tells him.

“Oh,” Richie says, and he doesn’t look as excited as Eddie thought he would be. His smile looks forced. He squeezes Eddie’s shoulders thoughtfully.

“What?” Eddie asks. “You don’t like roller-skating?”

“It isn’t really my thing,” Richie tells Eddie honestly. “But I’ll watch you. Are you any good?”

“I’m okay,” Eddie replies modestly.

When they get in the car and buckle in, Richie pulls out of his spot and asks Eddie, “You get around to listening to my mix?” And Eddie stares at him, recalls the cassette Richie had given him, and how Eddie had sat in his uncle’s car for a full hour listening to it, thinking about Richie. Eddie blushes unknowingly, shifts in his seat and turns his gaze toward the trees passing by out the window.

“Yeah. It’s good,” Eddie says. “They’re really good.”

“Yeah?” Eddie can hear Richie’s smile through his thick, raspy voice, and from the quiet whistle that begins to erupt from his throat. This makes Eddie turn, make eyes with Richie’s pale skin and the curve of his high cheekbones. “What’s your favorite song?”

“I don’t know… ‘The Chain’ maybe,” Eddie answers, but that is the only song he can fully remember the lyrics to, and he recalls how he had wanted to skate with that low rumble of a beat in the background. “What’s yours?”

“Which do you think?” Richie asks.

“What is your obsession with that song?” Eddie questions with a shake of his head and an airy chuckle. “It’s _good_ but not like _the best one._ ” Richie turns to Eddie with his brows furrowed and his mouth dropped open dramatically. “Don’t make that stupid face at me.”

“Eddie, you devil. You take that back,” Richie says. “It’s Stevie’s best. Everybody knows it.” Crossing his arms, Eddie shoots Richie a knowing look and sinks back into his seat. “It’s a _great_ song. It—It’s about heartache and losing yourself and—and trying to get by—“

“Okay, okay.” Laughing, Eddie puts a hand on Richie’s shoulder as if to steal him from his thoughts. “It’s a good song. Don’t miss this turn because you’re explaining it to me.” Richie glances at Eddie and rolls his eyes, putting his blinker on and making a left turn into the roller rink’s parking lot. He eases into a parking space and shuts off the car. It is quiet, and Richie’s hands are still on the steering wheel, gripping so tightly Eddie can see his veins and bones. “Hey,” Eddie says to him, and he reaches out to touch his arm. Richie looks at Eddie. Something flashes in his eyes. And he loosens his grip, smiles, and steps out of the car without a word. Eddie sighs, and grabs his backpack from the car floor before getting out of the car.

He jogs to catch up to Richie, who has already started walking toward the enrance. Eddie doesn’t know what he did, or what he said, so he tugs on Richie’s jacket sleeve and pulls him to the side. Richie looks down at Eddie, mouth closed and wide-eyed. Eddie says, “I’m sorry if I made you mad—“

“I’m not mad,” Richie says, and he moves his arms to either side of Eddie, puts his hands on Eddie’s shoulders, squeezes. “I could never be mad at you, stud. Now come on. Show me whatcha got.” And Eddie wants to ask _are you sure?_ But instead he grins and takes Richie’s hand, leading him inside the roller rink.

Derek waves at Eddie as he and Richie approach the counter. He says, “Hey, Eddie. You both skating today?”

“No. Just me,” Eddie replies with a smile.

“All right. Men’s seven, coming up.” Derek turns around to scavenge for Eddie’s usual skates just as Eddie feels a hand on his hip. Eddie looks up at Richie, who is laughing to himself.

“Size seven?” is what Richie says. “Everything about you is mini.”

_Is Richie laughing at him?_

Eddie frowns and says, “Not everyone can be a giant.” Derek puts Eddie’s skates on the counter and Eddie passes him some cash. Eddie avoids Richie’s gaze as Derek puts the money into the register.

“Eds? Really? You’re mad at me?” Richie asks, but Eddie can still hear the smile in his voice. He feels Richie’s hand meet his below the counter, tucked in front of his leg where nobody can see. And in the most hushed voice Eddie has ever heard, Richie says, “I like you mini.” And Eddie hates himself for blushing. “You’re like a fun-sized candy bar. I could just carry you around in my pocket all day and then eat you up.”

“You’re weird,” Eddie breathes, grabbing his skates by the shoelaces and walking over to the bench. He doesn’t need to look up to know that Richie has followed him over; Richie keeps a steady hand on Eddie’s shoulder, taps it once, twice, endearingly. Before Eddie sits down, he tells Richie he needs to change out of his uniform. He goes to the bathroom and pulls his sweaty uniform off, replacing it with something much more comfortable and flattering: dark wash denim shorts that stretch past his hips and slim at his waist, and a loose fitting striped shirt. When he’s done changing, he exits the bathroom and meets Richie over by the bench.

Eddie sits down and tugs his skates onto his feet, and he says to Richie, “Why were you here that one time—if you don’t skate? When we met outside?”

Richie points over to the concessions stand. He says, “I wanted a milkshake. Didn’t have my parents car to drive to the ice cream place.”

“Oh.” Eddie stands up. “That makes sense. Okay. You watching me now?”

“All eyes on you, stud,” Richie says, and he follows Eddie over to the fencing. Eddie grins at Richie one last time before pushing onto the floor and skating around the ring a few times, getting into the roller-skating game. The roller rink is not so busy tonight. Eddie has enough room to spread his arms out and skate backwards without having to worry about bumping into someone. Recently, Eddie has been practicing this move Derek taught him (one morning, before any customers came in, Derek got on the floor with Eddie). When he had first shown Eddie, Eddie had given it a try and landed straight on his ass. But since then he’s put hard work into this hobby of his. The move is called a _salchow_ as Derek pronounced it. And Eddie’s gotten pretty good at it.

And he thinks he’ll show off to Richie.

With this, Eddie drops his arms to his side and slowly makes his way over to where Richie is standing, elbows on the fencing, eyes on Eddie. “Wow! Eds’ got the moves.” Eddie chuckles, holding onto the fencing between Richie’s elbows to keep steady.

“Look at this, Rich. I’ve been working on this cool move,” Eddie says.

“I’m looking, stud,” Richie replies.

Skating back toward the middle of the floor, Eddie takes a deep breath. He keeps his body moving, his skates never missing a beat, and he slowly turns so that he is skating backwards, steadying his weight on his left foot. As Eddie extends his left arm in front of him, he extends his right at his side. And as he floats, backward, he quickly brings his right leg around so that it circles toward his left, and he _jumps._ It all happens so quickly, both spins, and Eddie breathes a sigh of relief when he lands on his right foot, steady, perfect, bent at the knee with his left foot in the air behind him. The adrenaline fueling Eddie’s veins must have willed him to do a double salchow, which has _never_ happened. Or perhaps it is just the thrill of having an audience that brings out the best in Eddie.

When Eddie skates over to Richie, he cannot help the excitement that takes over. Eddie tells Richie, “Holy shit! Did you see that, Rich? I’ve never done a double before… holy fuck.” Eddie rubs the back of his neck, a little overwhelmed, and searches Richie’s face for some sort of validation, but can find none. All Richie is doing is smiling, and then he sighs, and then he groans and tips his head back.

“You’re so cute,” Richie says. “Jesus Christ. You’re so _cute._ Cute, cute, cute!”

“Stop,” Eddie says, but what he really wants to say is _keep going._ Because nobody has ever called Eddie cute before, and nobody has looked at him like Richie has. Eddie’s heart throbs, his chest heavy with affection. Richie runs a hand through his hair and adjusts his glasses, then he drops his hands onto the fence and taps along the paint. Eddie watches, raises a brow, and asks, “Need a smoke?”

Richie gets awfully twitchy when he wants a cigarette.

“You get me, Eds,” Richie replies, and so Eddie switches his roller-skates for his sneakers, and they go outside. The cool summer air that comes at night is Eddie’s favorite. He wonders how Richie does not sweat under that windbreaker. He wears it all the time, except for that night in the bathroom, when his nose had bled and he had seemed off. Eddie stares at Richie as he lights a cigarette and places it between his lips. Inhales. Exhales. And then, as he always does, he takes the cigarette between his index and middle finger, tilting it towards Eddie, eyebrows raised.

All Eddie says is, “Asthma.”

Richie’s reply: “Ah.”

Richie continues to smoke, and Eddie continues to stare. At the curve of Richie’s nose and the freckles that float across his cheeks like a river. At his glasses that take up too much of his face, and his teeth that are too big for his mouth, and oh—his _mouth_ , thin-lipped and plump and peach, and Eddie wants to _kiss him._ And Eddie continues to stare because he can’t help it. Though Richie is no looker, he is not cute, or sexy. If anything, he’s average. But he radiates charm and looks like a mystery, dresses like he’s confident and paints his nails like nobody will look. And Eddie likes that. It’s _Richie._

“Stop looking at me like that,” Richie says, huffing a lighthearted chuckle. His eyes are trained on Eddie as Eddie blinks up at him, curious.

“What?” Eddie asks.

“I can’t kiss you here, stud. I really want to, but I can’t,” is Richie’s explanation. He takes a drag of his cigarette as blush makes its way to Eddie’s face.

“I wasn’t—“ Eddie begins to say, but Richie cuts him off.

“No need to lie, Eds,” Richie says. “I would know that look anywhere.”

Eddie purses his lips, presses, “You get it a lot, then?”

“Well, I’m usually the one dishing it out,” Richie says with a grin. _Oh._ So Eddie just smiles and looks across the street in attempt to not stare at Richie anymore. But after a few moments of silence, he sees Richie’s cigarette drop to the ground out of the corner of his eye. He looks up at Richie, the question of, _Are we going back inside?_ ripe on his tongue. Though it never makes its exit. It stays in Eddie’s throat, hushed and breathy, because what Richie says steals the words from Eddie’s mouth. Richie glances around, and then he says, “Fuck it.”

And Eddie barely registers what’s going on before Richie is stepping toward him, before he is holding his hands to Eddie’s cheeks, cupping his face. Before he leans in and surprises Eddie with a kiss.

Eddie’s hands immediately rest themselves on Richie’s torso, because he is so tall, and they are _kissing._ Richie’s lips were dry seconds ago, but now they are wet with Eddie’s spit, with Eddie’s undying _want_. And Richie’s mouth tastes like cigarettes and breath mints, but Eddie doesn’t care. Eddie can’t get enough.

But then Richie pulls away, drops his painted fingers to Eddie’s shoulders. And the kiss is over before it’s even started. There is a large grin on Richie’s face, and Eddie mirrors his look. Still caught up with the world of wanting and being wanted back, Eddie almost expects Richie to say something romantic. But he only licks his lips, and says, “Vanilla?”

Eddie blinks, takes the back of his hand and wipes his mouth off. “What?” he asks.

“Or is it strawberry? I think its strawberry. It’s too fruity to be vanilla,” Richie says.

“What are you talking about?” Eddie questions. He has no clue what Richie is going on about. Can’t they just go back to kissing?

“Ice cream, stud,” Richie says, as if it should be obvious. “You taste like ice cream.”

_I taste like…_

“Raspberry,” Eddie states. And Richie snaps his fingers like the fruit was on the tip of his tongue yet he couldn’t quite place it. “We got a new shipment in… I couldn’t just _not_ try the new flavors.”

“You’re something else.” Richie laughs, and Eddie feels warm at the sound. And he reaches up to drag his fingers through Richie’s curly hair, prompting Richie to turn his head and kiss Eddie’s arm. _I like you so much,_ Eddie wants to say, _It feels like I’ve known you forever._

Richie asks if Eddie wants to go back inside. Eddie says yes. And as Richie watches Eddie roller-skate, whooping and yelling, cheering him on, grinning mad, Eddie feels like Richie is a dream. A beautiful, vivid dream that smells like cigarette smoke and those little scented trees people keep in cars. One that feels like freckled skin and droopy clothes, that consists of a boy who isn’t afraid to pierce his ears and kiss a boy in public. And Eddie doesn’t ever want to wake up.

 

 

“Fucking— _off._ Take these _off_ ,” Eddie hisses, bumping his nose against Richie’s as Richie huffs something of a laugh. Eddie rolls his eyes and takes Richie’s glasses off himself, placing them in the backseat car pocket for safekeeping. “It’s so hard to kiss you with those on,” Eddie says. “Better this way.”

“Yeah? Well it’s easier to _see you_ with those on,” Richie says, squinting a little. Eddie can’t tell if he’s doing it for emphasis or if he really can’t see Eddie three inches away from his face. Shifting in his spot on Richie’s lap, Eddie gets a good look at Richie without glasses. He looks… strange. Eddie can’t decide if he looks better with them on or off. Then in the dim of the car light, Eddie catches sight of the dilation of Richie’s pupils. It sets Eddie’s chest on fire; he once read that if somebody’s eyes are dilated, it means they really like you. “See something you like?” Richie asks, his hands on Eddie’s hips, searching, squirming, tickling. “Lucky for you, you get the whole menu. This one’s on the house.”

Eddie puts a hand between him and Richie’s lips. “You don’t get to kiss me if you’re gonna be fucking weird about it.”

“Apologies. You do the honors.”

“So weird,” Eddie mumbles, moving in closer to kiss Richie on the mouth. Without glasses between them kissing is so comfortable. Richie licks into Eddie’s mouth, takes Eddie’s bottom lip between his teeth playfully. Eddie digs his hand into Richie’s stomach lightly, a warning, and Richie laughs into Eddie’s mouth. “Kissing you is so weird… Weren’t we supposed to catch a movie?” Eddie asks, pulling back. Suddenly Richie frowns, then squints, and it doesn’t seem like he heard Eddie’s question at all. As Richie raises a finger to Eddie’s face and swipes it across his cupid’s bow, Eddie notices that Richie’s nose has begun to bleed again. “You’re bleeding, Rich.”

Richie’s finger is red with his own blood. Blood that made its way onto Eddie’s skin during their mess of a make out. “Sorry, Eddie,” Richie says as Eddie wipes at his mouth with his hand. Now Eddie frowns. Richie never uses his real name. It’s always _stud_ or _Eds_ or something similar. And yes it’s _gross_ that Richie bled on Eddie, but the way his face contorts to one of panic makes Eddie feel uneasy.

“It’s okay,” Eddie says, turning around and leaning toward the front of the car to grab a tissue. He finds one in the glove compartment and hands it to Richie, who takes it and aids his nosebleed. “Why do you get so many nosebleeds?”

“I don’t know,” Richie says, sounding nasally and gross with the tissue shoved beneath his nose. Eddie slides off of Richie’s lap and into the middle seat of the car. Richie watches with sad eyes. “Sorry for ruining the mood.”

“You didn’t,” Eddie replies. “After your nose stops bleeding we’ll pick up right where we left off.”

“That a promise?” Richie cracks a smile, that smile Eddie has come to enjoy so much.

 

 

Every year in the middle of July the town hosts a music festival. There’s a large stage and carnival games and booths full of unique knick-knacks. It smells like buttery popcorn and sickly sweet cotton candy, lemon wedges on iced drinks and deep fried elephant ears. And this summer, Eddie gets to be a part of it. _Sure,_ he’s stuck serving hard ice cream to yelling kids and friendly adults, but his friends come around his booth to keep him company. He’s just glad Stacey didn’t make him wear his uniform. ( _“It’s the hottest day of the year,” he had said to her, frowning. She sighed heavily, put a hand to her forehead, and mumbled, “Okay. Fine. Wear what you want.”_ )

He’s wearing red overalls and an oversized white shirt. The heat is still unbearable, but at least he doesn’t look like an absolute fool in front of his friends… and his boyfriend, if he would bother to show up.

“Eddie!” Mike calls out from a distance. Eddie leans against the booth counter with his chin resting on his closed fist. It’s been a boring hour. The families that come to buy ice cream smell like sweat and regret. “Eddie,” Mike says again as he approaches the Scoops N’ Smiles booth. Ben follows close behind Mike with a bright smile on his face, and Bill and Stan are not too far behind. “Any chance of you closing up early to come watch the performance?”

Eddie frowns. “I doubt it.”

“You work too much,” Mike says.

“You deserve a break,” Ben agrees. Even Bill and Stan nod, and for a second, Eddie considers it. But then he shakes his head and offers his friends a sympathetic smile.

“I really wish I could,” Eddie says. “I need the money, guys.”

“I-It’s okay, E-Eddie,” Bill replies, waving a hand. “B-But since y-y-you’re working—can I g-get a vanilla c-c-cone?”

“Sure,” Eddie says. Walking over to the freezer, Eddie opens it up and snatches a cone from the nearby table. He digs the scooper into the hard ice cream until he’s maintained a good size of the vanilla, then he plops it onto the cone and squishes it down with the back of the metal scooper for steadiness. When he hands it to Bill, he says, “It’s free, just don’t tell my boss.”

“T-Thanks, Eddie.”

“What time does the performance start?” Eddie asks, curious. He’ll at least be able to hear it from his booth.

“Five minutes, I think,” Stan says. “It’s some local band. Hopefully they’re good.”

“The music here is usually good,” Ben adds hopefully.

“Oh,” Bill says suddenly, his ice cream already melting down the cone and falling dangerously close to his fingers. Bill is looking off into the distance, and Eddie follows his eyes to where Beverly and Richie are standing, huddled together and laughing. “B-Bev’s here.” _Richie’s here, too,_ Eddie thinks, trying not to smile. He hasn’t told anybody about Richie; he’s scared of the outcome. Stan hates Richie, and the others seem to think similarly of him. Eddie doesn’t understand why. He thinks Richie can be _a lot_ sometimes, but that’s not enough reason for Eddie to dislike him.

“She’s coming over,” Stan states as Beverly begins to walk towards Scoops N’ Smiles.

“Rich isn’t coming,” Mike says to Stan, narrowing his eyes. “Be nice.”

“Hey, guys!” Beverly says, grinning widely. She is wearing a blue floral dress that hugs her upper body but bursts out at her mid-waist, and her hair is up in a high ponytail, bouncy and playful as ever. Eddie wonders if she knows how breathtakingly beautiful she is. Somehow he doubts it. “Hey, Eddie.”

“Hi, Beverly.” Ben is the first to speak. Everybody follows shortly with polite greetings, Eddie included, but he tunes out most of the conversation as his eyes drift over to where Richie is standing alone. Eddie frowns. He feels _bad._ Eddie glances at his friends and then quickly looks back to Richie. Richie looks right at him, blank faced as Eddie tips his head slightly, discreetly trying to tell Richie to come over. He sees Richie shake his head.

“—Eddie?” That’s Beverly’s voice. Eddie looks at her, expectant, and he feels everybody’s eyes on him. Beverly just laughs. “I asked if I could have some ice cream.”

“Oh. Yeah. Of course. The usual?” Beverly has been coming into Scoops N’ Smiles a lot recently. Eddie suspects it’s because he and Richie have started going out. She nods. Just as Eddie is about to go over to the freezer, Ben stops him by grabbing his shirtsleeve.

“Eddie, we’re gonna head over to the stage now. We’ll come by after.”

“Okay. Have fun!” And as soon as his friends disperse, Richie begins slowly making his way towards the ice cream booth. “It’s only hard ice cream today. Is that okay?”

“That is perfectly fine,” she says, and just as Eddie turns around to get her strawberry cone, she catches him off guard with a teasing, “My friend seems quite taken with you.” Eddie tenses, glances over his shoulder with a sheepish smile.

“Or he just has an ice cream habit,” Eddie jokes, and there is a strange look that flashes across Beverly’s face before she nods and gives a short chuckle. She says, “Maybe he does.”

There is a beat of silence, and so Eddie moves to get Beverly’s ice cream. When he turns back to her, Richie is leaning across the counter on both elbows, dreamily staring at Eddie. As Eddie hands Beverly her ice cream, he uses his free hand to flick Richie across the forehead. Beverly fumbles for some cash and hands it to Eddie, tells him, “Keep the change.” Then she turns to Richie and says, “I’m gonna head over to the stage. I’ll see you guys later.”

“Soooooo,” Richie says once she’s gone, running his hands across his clothed arms. He’s not wearing his usual jacket today, but instead wears a thin black long sleeve with dark wash high-waisted jeans. “You look cute today.” Eddie blushes, because he _always_ blushes, and says, “You look cute, too. Where’s the jacket?”

“Left it at home.” Richie leaves it at that.

“Your nails are red today,” Eddie observes, reaching out and taking Richie’s hand to get a better look. They’re messily painted an open wound red, spreading across his thin fingernails and onto his bitten cuticles.

“I paint them red on special occasions,” Richie says, and the loud strum of a guitar cuts into their conversation. “And that’s my cue. I’ll come by later, yeah?”

“Okay.” Grinning, Eddie lets go of Richie’s hand.

“Okay,” Richie repeats. Eddie quirks an eyebrow, curious as to why Richie has not left yet. He’ll miss the beginning of the set if he hangs around any longer. Then Richie winks. “I always get the last word, stud.”

 

“It’s fine,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes as he ties his shoelaces. His mother looks at him with pursed lips and disappointment in her eyes. “What is it, Ma? You don’t want me to have friends?” Sonia narrows her eyes and crosses her arms, acting especially petulant.

“I’ve barely seen you this summer, Eddie-bear,” she tells him. _Yeah,_ Eddie thinks, _it’s for a reason._ “Don’t you think you can spare one night to spend some time with your mother?”

“Tomorrow night, Ma,” Eddie says, because Richie is seeing a movie with Beverly then. Eddie will stay home with Stan and they’ll play video games. He’ll figure something out; he is by no means willingly spending time with his mother. Eddie’s always been good at acting busy. He stands up straight and yanks his shorts further down his legs from where they had ridden up. Eddie had to get ready last minute. Stan’s home phone rang (thankfully he’s with Bill and Mike) and it was Richie, telling Eddie in an excited voice that he needs to see him. Despite dressing in a rush, Eddie thinks he looks pretty good, dressed in a loose fitted pink shirt and blue high-waisted shorts, _and_ a pair of sneakers he bought with his last paycheck.

Sonia huffs, and says, “I don’t understand why you buy these clothes.”

“Because I like them. I use my own money,” Eddie says. “I’m going now.” And with that he swings the front door, waves a careless hand over his shoulder at his mother, and slams it shut. He settles down on the Uris’ front porch because Richie is running late. Eddie looks to the sky and minds the darkness, feels its company, and by the time ten minutes has passed, Eddie’s stomach begins to churn. _Richie is never this late,_ he thinks, a little worried. _What if something happened?_ Or even worse: _What if he decided he doesn’t like me anymore?_

And at twenty minutes past, Eddie is just about ready to turn back around and embarrassingly spend the night with his mother. But then he sees Richie’s car turn the corner, and a wave of relief rushes over him. Richie’s got his window rolled down, so he grins, and Eddie rushes across the street and gets in the passenger’s seat. “Nice of you to show up,” Eddie says, leaning over in his seat to meet Richie in the middle for a chaste kiss. “I thought you forgot or something.”

“I couldn’t forget about you, stud.”

“Well, what’re we doing? You sounded excited on the phone.”

“You’ll see,” Richie says as he drives down the street. “First we gotta go somewhere super romantic.” Eddie’s heart swells, though he knows Richie is only teasing. “How was work?”

“Boring,” Eddie says, sitting cross-legged in his seat, staring at Richie. Eddie pays no attention to the road, to where they are headed. “What about you? What did you do today?”

“Oh, you know,” Richie replies.

“No, I don’t.” Chuckling, Eddie stretches his hand to thread his fingers through Richie’s hair, gently pushing it behind his ear and absentmindedly tickling him. Richie lets out a boyish giggle as Eddie retracts his hand.

“Saw Beverly around noon… Ran some errands with my momma. That sort of thing,” Richie says.

“You close with your mom?” Eddie asks, curious. He never took Richie for someone that enjoys the company of family. Richie nods, his fingers moving to turn on his blinker, never missing a beat.

“Yeah. We used to be closer though, when I was younger and she worked less,” Richie states, gaze flicking over to Eddie. “My dad’s the hard ass; he only cares about me getting good grades… What about you?”

“My mom’s a pain in the ass,” Eddie says, heaving a sigh.

“Dang. That sucks. Sorry, stud,” Richie replies. “What about your dad? He any better?”

“He died when I was twelve.” Richie looks over at Eddie and places a hand on his knee.

“I’m sorry, Eds,” he says, but Eddie shakes his head.

“He was in a lot of pain… He was a really great dad.” Eddie often reminisces his memories with his father when his mother is being difficult. “He died of cancer. And now my mom is really worried about me getting cancer, or being sick, so that’s why she’s overbearing. It’s just the way she is. But sometimes I feel like I’m suffocating.”

“Parents can suck,” is all Richie says, and then, “Where we’re going will take your mind off of them though.” Glancing out the window, Eddie suddenly realizes they are headed somewhere very familiar to him: the roller rink. Richie pulls into the parking lot. Confusion rests across his face as he looks to Richie, asking, “You’re finally going roller-skating?”

“Even better.” Without warning, Richie puts a hand on Eddie’s cheek and leans over to kiss him on the mouth. Eddie lets out something of a squeak due to Richie catching him off guard, but mimics Richie’s action, settling his fingers on the side of Richie’s face. Richie only kisses him once, soft and gentle, and he pulls back slightly, making it possible for the two of them to maintain eye contact even at this close of a position. There is a bump to Eddie’s chest and then a close-mouthed smile on Richie’s face. “Surprise,” he says as Eddie glances down at what Richie is holding.

A pair of roller-skates. The coolest Eddie has ever seen; they are everything compared to the rented ones Eddie constantly wears, which are a dirty white with black wheels. But these are blue with rainbows on the sides, with _yellow wheels_. Eddie’s mouth hangs agape, because he is so unsure of what to say, what to do or how to act. Glancing up at Richie, there are stars in his heavenly brown eyes, so giddy and excited.

“I don’t know what to say,” Eddie says honestly, taking the roller-skates from Richie’s hands. They sit in his lap as Eddie runs his hands over the details, over the smooth leather, perfectly new. Nobody has ever given Eddie a gift before, let alone something so thoughtful.

“I saw these in some store window and thought of you. I couldn’t not buy them, so they’re yours,” Richie explains, and Eddie draws another blank… He can’t accept this, can he? Roller-skates can’t be cheap. “Do you not like them, or…?” Richie trails off, and Eddie feels his eyes on him, probably trying to get a read on what Eddie is thinking.

“No, Rich,” Eddie says, meeting Richie’s troubled eyes. “Of course I like them. I just—they must have been really pricey, no? Let me pay you for them.”

“Eds, I don’t want your money,” Richie says. “They’re a gift. From me to you. I know you told me you probably wouldn’t be able to skate in Derry, because of your mom and needing money to rent a pair. So I figured…maybe this way you could sneak some roller-skating time.”

“I love them,” Eddie tells Richie, flashing him a charming smile. “They’re so _nice._ I’ve never seen a pair like this.”

“I’m glad,” Richie says quietly. “Well! Let’s go wear ‘em out, huh?” They get out of the car, standing close together as they approach the roller rink because they can’t hold hands without fear. But it’s okay, because the roller rink is empty tonight, and Eddie wonders if something is going on, like a party or concert, or if his luck is really just that good. After Eddie waves hello to Derek and goes over to sit on the bench, Richie stands behind him with both of his hands in his hair. “Have I ever told you how much I love your hair?” Richie asks, and Eddie bites back a smile as he ties his first roller-skate on. “Because I do. I’ve got a thing for blonds, believe it or not.”

“Very classy,” Eddie says, moving to do his other shoe. “Blonds have more fun. Right?”

“You tell me, blondie,” Richie shoots back. “What about you? You gotta type?”

“Nope,” Eddie lies, and he stands up but accidentally stumbles over his feet. He would have fallen down if it weren’t for Richie grabbing hold of his arm and keeping him steady.

“Gotcha,” Richie mumbles, real tender. And with Eddie looking up at Richie, and Richie looking down at Eddie, Eddie is overcome with affection. His heart is heavy, beating rapidly against his chest. He wonders if Richie can hear. And Eddie quickly glances over to the counter, to see if Derek is looking at them strangely, but Derek isn’t there at all, probably having run off to the backroom or to the restroom. With a clear coast, Eddie stands on his tippy-toes in a foolish attempt to reach Richie at his towering height. Richie leans down and they meet in the middle, lips folding into each other, the taste of Richie’s last cigarette fresh on his tongue. But Eddie doesn’t mind.

When they pull away, there is a different sparkle to Richie’s eyes.

 

 

Bill is with Beverly. Eddie knows this because Stan is at home tonight. They’ve been eating junk food and watching movies all day; they have the whole house to themselves. Their parents left for some fancy dinner an hour ago, not that either boy particularly cares that they were excluded. They would much rather lay on the couch and order a greasy pizza.

“So what do you do when you’re not working?” Stan asks as Eddie takes a bite of his pizza slice. Eddie quickly searches for an answer—an excuse. “I feel like I never see you.”

“I go to the roller rink,” Eddie says. “And, like, the guy who works there is my friend now. We hang out sometimes. Derek.”

“Oh, yeah,” Stan says. “I think he’s in the grade above me. He seems like a nice guy.” There is a beat of silence, of awkward nodding and confusion. “Are you guys, like…”

“No! Oh God, no. I don’t even think he’s gay,” Eddie says.

“Oh, okay.” Stan puts his empty pizza plate onto the living room table, and Eddie finds the courage to finally ask, “So you and Bill?” And Stan turns red just at the mention of Bill’s name. “I totally called it. It’s so obvious.”

“Really?” Stan groans, embarrassed, but the sight just makes Eddie smile. Is this how he looks when he’s around Richie? “It’s not really anything. We’re just hanging out.”

“Just hanging out,” Eddie echoes. “Okay, sure. You’re _just hanging out._ ”

“It’s true!” Laughing, Stan leans back into his seat on the couch and kicks his feet up into Eddie’s lap. “What about you? If not Derek, you see anyone else that you like?” The question is simple, and typical, but it makes Eddie sad. Stan is his favorite cousin, a good friend even, and Eddie can’t even share his romantic life with him. It not only confuses, but also annoys Eddie that Stan and Richie have some unknown rocky history. Eddie wishes someone would spill it already, because not knowing is getting to be a real nuisance. But he smiles weakly and shakes his head anyway.

“Nah,” Eddie says, the lie ugly in his mouth. “You want another slice?”

 

 

It’s one in the morning. Eddie’s got the keys to the roller rink and his hand in Richie’s. They exchange short smiles as they sneak over to the front door of the building. Curfew ended at eleven, but Richie makes Eddie do crazy things, apparently; something had willed Eddie to ask Derek if he could borrow the keys for a surprise, and Derek had surprisingly said, looking careless as ever, “Yeah. Just don’t leave the place a total mess.” And Eddie thinks that is the best perk of befriending Derek.

“You’re such a rebel, stud,” Richie whispers as Eddie unlocks the door and pushes it open as quietly as he can. It has been a couple days since they last hung out, because Richie has seemed to have his head in the clouds as of late, so Eddie wanted to do something special, fun— _private._ Almost like a real date, as silly as that may sound.

Once they’re inside Eddie locks the door and turns around, excited to roller-skate, but happily surprised by the arms that wrap around him. He leans into Richie, hugging him back tightly, and he thinks he feels them swaying a little, from side-to-side in a lover’s embrace. They are quiet in the emptiness surrounding them, and Eddie rests his head against Richie’s chest, listening to his rapid heartbeat as his fingers wander underneath Richie’s navy blue sweater. For whatever reason, tonight he’s decided to ditch the windbreaker and settle for something Eddie has never seen before. Eddie likes Richie either way. Even in embarrassingly short shorts and greasy hair. In chipping nail polish and ugly teeth. Richie is an early birthday present, Eddie thinks, and he dreads having to go back to Derry in only four weeks. “What’re you thinkin’ about?” comes a quiet question. Eddie bites his lip, tracing his fingers on the spine of Richie’s back. Richie lets out a snort-giggle, then says, “I’m ticklish.”

“Oh, are you?” Eddie says, releasing his grip on Richie’s torso and taking his hands instead. Richie’s hands are thin, he’s got pale paper skin, veins on full display. Though there is something new Eddie notices, despite having held Richie’s hands dozens of time before. “Your hands are shaking.” And Richie immediately pulls them from Eddie’s grip, having a look for himself.

“I guess they are,” he says, and puts them into his jean pockets. “Well, put on your skates and get rolling. I paid for a show.”

“Let’s get you a pair first,” Eddie states, staring up at Richie with this childish smile he knows he can’t resist. Richie throws his head back with a dramatic groan. “It’ll be _fun._ I’ll hold your hand the whole way.”

“I’m a klutz, Eds. I thought you knew this about me.” Eddie ignores Richie and instead goes over to the cubbies behind the counter, where the skates are kept, and yells, “Shoe size?”

“Ten and a half,” Richie answers. Eddie goes over to where the bigger sizes are kept and notes the roller rink doesn’t carry half sizes.

“Ten or eleven, pick one,” Eddie tells him.

“Pick for me,” Richie replies, taking a seat on the bench. Shrugging, Eddie yanks a size ten out of its rightful spot. _Better snug than too loose,_ he supposes, as he makes his way over to Richie. Eddie hands them to Richie and sits down beside him. As they both yank on their skates and tie the laces, Richie fills the silence: “Wanna know the best part about being here with you, right now?”

“Hm.” Eddie pretends to think, even putting a thoughtful finger to his chin for good measure. “The fact that you’re here with me, right now?”

“What a little smart ass you are.” Richie says with a chuckle, still bent over tying his laces whilst Eddie has risen to his feet and is stretching out a little. “I was gonna say: I can kiss you as many times as I want… Do you know how many times we’ve been in here and I’ve wanted to make out with you? Too many fucking times, I’ll tell you that.”

“You’re so sweet,” Eddie deadpans, holding out his hand for Richie to grab onto. Yet Richie doesn’t rise from his seat, he blinks up at Eddie and says, “Can I watch you first? I love watching you skate. Show me what you’ve been working on.”

“Fine,” Eddie tells him, and Richie kisses each of his knuckles.

“Thank you,” Richie says. “You’re the best.”

 

* * *

_Watching Eddie on the floor reminds Richie of a dream he had once. A distant dream, the dreams where your vision is clouded with old camera haze, and you can just barely make out what it is you’re looking at. And the world seems to move in slow motion as Eddie spins, dances on the floor, laughs that airy kind of laugh, the laugh you share with a lover, or a good friend. That careless laugh follows him off the ground, carries him on the weight of his roller-skates. And he is smiling, playfully looking back at Richie, wonder traced in his features and flowers blossoming in his eyes. He looks at Richie like Richie has the world to offer, when he only has a sliver at best. Because Eddie is not the shadow of a person, like Richie is. And even now, with simple gazes exchanged from across the same room, Richie and Eddie are on opposite sides of the universe._

 

* * *

 

 

Eventually Eddie gets Richie onto the floor, and after begging and bribing him with kisses, Richie finally trudges over and falls right on his ass. Eddie barks a laugh and helps him up, aiding him as he learns how to roller-skate for the first time.

“You’re a shit teacher,” Richie says as he bends down and kisses Eddie, both hands still steady on the shorter boy’s shoulders. Eddie furrows his brows and shoves Richie’s stomach, causing Richie to roll backwards whilst filling his face with full panic. Grabbing Richie’s hands, Eddie pulls Richie back toward him. “I-I was gonna say—you’re a shit teacher for _dating your student._ ” Then Richie laughs obnoxiously loud, and Eddie lets go of his hands. As Richie immediately starts to roll away, he makes grabby hands for Eddie, looking peculiarly like a child. He shouts, “Eddie! Eddie! I’m sorry—please don’t let me fall again. I’ve fallen so many times.”

“Maybe you need to learn to pick yourself up,” Eddie says, crossing his arms and skating around Richie in circles as Richie tries so desperately hard to not make any sudden movements.

“Are you getting smart with me, stud?” Richie questions.

“Maybe I am,” Eddie teases, skating faraway from Richie now. Richie is facing in the other direction and can’t turn around on his own, but his next line comes with as much confidence as it would have if he had been looking deep into Eddie’s eyes.

“Because you know what intelligence does to me. Makes me wanna—“

“Don’t.”

“Okay, okay.” Sighing, Richie waves his lanky arms by his sides. “Think you could come back over here and help me out?” Eddie grins and skates over to Richie. As soon as Eddie is within two feet Richie is desperately clinging to him again, both of his arms draped around Eddie’s shoulders as he slumps over in some kind of half-sitting stance.

“Stop pulling me down, you leech,” Eddie says as he laughs, helping Richie back to his feet.

“You’re so rude, Eds,” Richie jokes.

Eddie places Richie’s arm over his shoulders and softly tries to explain how to roller-skate properly. And after a while, Richie seems to get it, so Eddie lets go of him and watches as Richie skates right into the fencing, hitting his legs and groin. It makes Eddie laugh, and Richie tear up, but other than that the night is injury free. By the end of it, at three in the morning, they are sitting atop the roller rink counter, intertwined fingers and erratic heartbeats, and Eddie wishes this will never change—wishes _they_ won’t ever change.

But sometimes things have to.

 

 

One night, the Uris family phone rings. And for some reason, there is a feeling deep inside Eddie’s gut telling him he should answer the phone, and without knowing why, or what is driving him to feel this way, he rises from his seat on the sofa and tells Stan he’ll get it. He never answers the phone. Stan looks at him funny. But when Eddie gets to the kitchen, and takes the phone off the wall, holding it to his ear with a polite “hello?” he is immediately curious. He told Richie earlier that day that Stan would be home. That meant _don’t call._

“Hey,” Richie says. “I was hoping you would pick up.” A cough follows his sentence, though it is partially muffled, perhaps due to Richie covering the phone to lessen the sound. “I—I’ve been—“ Richie coughs again, louder this time, sounding a dry and painful rupture from the back of his throat, and it soon turns into a coughing and wheezing fit.

The whole thing is peculiar. Eddie doesn’t know what to think, but once Richie clears his throat, Eddie says, quiet so Stan can’t hear in the next room over, “You need to borrow my inhaler, Rich?” And Eddie thought that was a pretty clever and witty response, that Richie would reply with _Sure stud, you know I’d put my mouth anywhere yours has been._ But Richie doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t say a word. Eddie shifts, leaning against the wall, biting his lip. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Richie doesn’t sound very convincing. He sounds almost as if he is in a hurry to get somewhere, his words jittery and rushed. Not at all like his usual conversation. “I just, can’t drive you to work tomorrow. I know I said I would but… I’m feeling pretty… uh, sick.”

“Like the flu?” Eddie asks, concerned.

“Uh. I don’t know what it is, stud. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay, but don’t call between—“

“For sure,” Richie says before the line goes dead. Eddie’s lips are still parted from having been in the middle of a sentence. _What the fuck?_ He thinks, taking the phone away from his ear and staring at it blankly as if it can offer some background on what just happened. _Why did he hang up just like that? Why did he—_

“Ed!” Stan’s voice comes from the living room. “Who was on the phone?”

Eddie’s bottom lip trembles, and perhaps he is being dramatic, _oversensitive_ as his mother says. But Richie has never been that abrupt with Eddie before. With Richie, Eddie never feels as though his voice isn’t valued, but just now Richie hadn’t even wanted to hear it. So, with trembling hands, Eddie hooks the phone back to the kitchen wall and replies, “Wrong number.”

 

 

Three days pass and Eddie hears nothing from Richie. He only hears the Scoops N’ Smiles door chime because he has begun taking extra shifts. _You don’t have enough money saved,_ his mother said to him, and for once, she had been right. So Eddie works when he can, which is now, due to Richie’s disappearance: all the time. Hence why Eddie is left to lock up this Saturday night; he waits patiently for the clock to strike ten, so he can finally heave a sigh and go home. Closing up is Eddie’s favorite part of his job. The worst part is that every time he isn’t serving ice cream, or talking to customers, he is thinking about Richie and that awful, confusing phone call. It is troubling, almost, reliving that conversation and trying to depict what was happening on the other line. It’s a challenge for sure.

And finally, the clock reads ten o’clock. Eddie ducks down under the counter to search for the cleaning supplies. Before leaving for the night, Eddie has to clean the tables. Not that he particularly minds cleaning; it’s better than working. Whilst Eddie is digging around for a rag and cleaning spray, the door chimes and somebody walks in. As Eddie rises to his feet, he says, “We’re closed—” But upon seeing Richie, the rest of Eddie’s sentence falls flat, “Oh.”

“Stud! Feels like forever since the last time I saw you,” Richie says, sounding cheery as he rests his hands on the pink counter. Eddie ignores him and continues looking for what he needs. Once he finds them, he sprays the counter (causing Richie to quickly retract his hands in the hopes of not getting spray with chemicals) and slams the rag down onto it, scrubbing away. “Whoa, whoa, calm down.”

“Calm down?” Eddie frowns. What is Richie _doing?_ “You ghosted me. What the fuck, Richie?”

“It’s only been a day,” Richie says, looking at Eddie as if he’s mad. Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up.

“A day? Richie, you haven’t spoken to me since cancelling our plans. That was on _Thursday._ ” Shaking his head, Eddie goes over to the few tables in the shop and wipes them down. It gets terribly sweaty in here, and sticky, so the smell of the cleaning spray that circles the air feels like a blessing. “You’re an asshole.”

“Three days…?” Eddie hears Richie say to himself. Eddie watches as Richie runs a hand through his curly hair, as he stuffs his hands into the pockets of that windbreaker he loves so much. As he turns to Eddie, he flashes that crooked, sympathetic smile he always does. And Eddie’s heart just… warms. And he hates it. He hates that he’s mad at Richie and that he still wants to be with him. “I was with Beverly the whole time. She just got dumped. Was helpin’ a pal, out. You understand, don’t you, Eddie?” Eddie blinks, and he slings the rag over his shoulder, carrying the spray back over behind the counter so he can put the supplies back. “Stud, don’t shut me out.”

“I…” Staring at Richie now, he looks so sincere. And Eddie is hurt, from the phone call and the past few days, but he believes in second chances. He believes Richie deserves at least _one._ “You really were with her?” Richie immediately crosses an ‘X’ over his heart with his index finger, wide-eyed.

“Cross my heart,” he says. There is a beat of silence, of Eddie thinking and Richie worrying.

“Okay. Fine. I believe you,” Eddie tells him, and Richie grins widely. “But don’t fuck up again. Call me instead of leaving me to wonder what the fuck happened.”

“I promise. Thanks for trusting me, Eds,” Richie replies.

“Don’t make me regret it,” Eddie says, warning.

“You need a ride?” Richie asks, because Eddie always needs a ride. His uncle used the car today, so Eddie had to walk the fifteen minutes to work. Nodding, Eddie takes his bag from the shelf next to the register and slips it over his shoulder. And together they lock up and go to Richie’s car, where they sit in the front seats and think about whether they should make out or not. At least, that is what Eddie is contemplating as he stares out the window and taps on his pant leg. He isn’t needed at home for the night. Stan is out with Bill and Mike and Eddie’s mother has gone to see a show with his aunt. _Is it ridiculous to try and make out with him after just having a fight? Do couples do that?_

Glancing over at Richie, Eddie sees that he has both hands on the wheel, but his gaze is glued to the dashboard where the cassette player lies. Eddie follows his eyes and doesn’t find anything of particular interest, so he says, “Richie.” Only this doesn’t do anything, Richie only continues to stare. Blankly. Like he’s not really there. “Richie, stop. You’re freaking me out.” No response, no movement. Slowly reaching out, Eddie shakes Richie’s shoulder in attempt to get his attention. And then Richie blinks, gazes over at Eddie, smiles, turns on the car, and drives. Just drives like there’s nothing wrong.

Eddie says nothing. He feels a little sick, all words lodged in the back of his throat. There’s no way he can speak, not when he feels uneasy. Richie is acting so strange, and it makes Eddie nervous. _What the hell is wrong with me?_

“Are you dropping me at Stan’s?” Eddie clarifies.

“Sure am,” comes Richie’s raspy voice. “Hand me a cigarette? I think they’re in the glove compartment.” Eddie pushes open the glove compartment and retrieves Richie’s pack. He fumbles for a cigarette and then passes it to Richie, who steadies one hand on the wheel while his other digs around for a lighter in his jacket pocket. Richie takes the cigarette and lights it, takes a long drag, the longest Eddie has ever seen. Exhales out the window. Eddie doesn’t say anything. He feels odd, and this all feels wrong. Something is off. In the way Richie looks and in the words he says. “How was your day? What did you do, Eds?”

“Uh. Worked, you know. What about you?” Eddie asks, glancing at Richie. This conversation sounds so awkward, so forced. As if they are strangers and not lovers. “Hung out with Beverly?” Eddie guesses, voice a little sour. But if Richie notices he doesn’t say anything, just takes a drag from his cigarette.

“Yup. Me and Bevvy,” Richie answers. “Oh! I just remembered. You left an inhaler in here, somewhere. I think it’s in the back. Might’ve fallen out of your pocket when we were foolin’ around one time.” The memory makes Richie chuckle, and even makes Eddie crack a smile. “There’s that smile I love so much.” Turning to look at Richie, Eddie tries not to dwell on how he had said _love._ But when Eddie’s gaze falls to Richie’s face, he sees that as Richie had been speaking, blood had begun to drip down from his right nostril. Only when the blood patterns down Richie’s lip does he take notice, flicking his cigarette out the window to feel for it. “Shit,” Richie says with another chuckle, so half-hearted and dry. “Sorry, stud.”

Richie doesn’t ask for a tissue, so Eddie doesn’t reach for one. All he can do is _look_ and _think._ Think that maybe Richie is full of shit. That maybe he is not what Eddie thought he was at all, thoughtful and kind and caring (how often are people actually what we think them to be?). Maybe he and Richie have their differences, too. Like Richie and Stanley. Like Richie and _everybody._

Like most people.

Eddie asks, “Allergies?”

And Richie glances over at him, and he reaches his hand toward Eddie’s hair to push an unkempt blond curl behind his ear. Then Richie smiles, so sweetly, and he says, “Yeah. Allergies.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope u enjoyed!!! if ya did and are feelin generous https://goo.gl/8reEr2  
> also i forgot to mention there is a fic playlist here https://goo.gl/r8Tcwh
> 
> leave ur thoughts tysm for reading!!xox


	3. after

“Eddie?” Eddie feels his name breathed against his neck, feels two hands wrapped around his hips. Blinking, Eddie readjusts to where he is: sleeping on top of the old red mustang with Richie in his arms. Eddie must have dozed off; his eyes are heavy now, and he yawns loudly, pulls his hand out of Richie’s hair to rub his face. “Did you fall asleep?”

“For a little while, I think,” Eddie says, returning his hands back to Richie’s curls, and he brushes through them loosely, eyes trained on the stars above. He doesn’t know what to say, but feels a discomfort in his stomach and decides to ask, “I’m kinda hungry. Aren’t you?”

And Richie says, “Not really.”

“I never see you eat,” Eddie states, voice real soft, caring, no-judgment. But Richie goes quiet, only sniffles his runny nose. “You’re really skinny, too, Rich… If you get any skinnier I won’t be the mini one in this relationship anymore.” Eddie tries with a joke, expecting to hear a chuckle or a comment about how _stud, you’ll always be the mini one._ Yet he is met with silence.

“I’ve always been lanky,” Richie answers, finally. “I thought you liked me that way.”

And Eddie’s first thought is to say _I like you any way,_ but he bites his tongue and settles for rubbing Richie’s back, because if he said that he would be lying. There are times when Eddie doesn’t like Richie. Times when Eddie feels too uneasy. But when he feels like that he remembers Stan, and how he had given up on Richie just because it is difficult to be around him, and it makes Eddie feel bad, makes him pull Richie into a tight embrace the next time they hang out, kiss his black painted fingernails under the moonlight—an almost-apology for even thinking about leaving.

 

 

Richie forgot. At least, that is what Eddie figures, as he waits around work for his ride to show up. Scoops N’ Smiles is hitting a lull in their summertime rush of customers, so Eddie has been standing here, bored, hoping Richie would show up early to keep Eddie company, yet he can’t even show up _on time._ Sighing, Eddie reaches for the rag under the cash register and starts to clean the countertop off. He whistles the tune of some Fleetwood Mac song he can’t remember the name of, and only looks up when he hears the door chime. Eddie is happily surprised to meet eyes with Beverly, who looks radiant as ever, sporting a new pair of spandex shorts with a sugary grin. It makes Eddie’s heart warm, to see her acting so bright even after a breakup. He couldn’t do it.

“Eddie, hey,” she says, coming up to the counter. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” Eddie says, tossing the rag back under the counter so he can make Beverly’s order. “What about you…? Richie told me about your breakup, I’m sorry.” Eddie watches as Beverly furrows her eyebrows, takes her bottom lip into her mouth, and thinks. It goes quiet for a moment, and the friendly air between the two of them seems to depart with Eddie’s apology. “Sorry… I didn’t mean to bring it up or anything.”

“No, Eddie.” She shakes her head and crosses her arms. Now _she_ is the one looking apologetic. “I haven’t been in a relationship since last year. I don’t know why Richie told you that, but…” Trailing off, she seems to be searching Eddie’s face for an indication of what is running through his head. And Eddie is upset. He’s _so_ upset. He’s sad that Richie lied to him and mad at himself for believing him. Biting his lip so it doesn’t tremble, Eddie clenches his fists at his side and lets out a frustrated huff. “I’m really sorry, Eddie. But whatever he told you isn’t true.”

“Oh,” is all Eddie manages to say, and he reaches his right hand out to get a stable grip on the countertop. And the door chimes again. Beverly and Eddie both look, and maybe she’s half-expecting Richie to walk in, like Eddie. But it’s only Mike, who waves his hand in a friendly hello and approaches the two of them. There is a short glance exchanged between Beverly and Eddie, a silent plea of _let’s not mention this._ “Hey, Mike. Good to see you.”

“Yeah. Mike, it’s really good to see you,” Beverly says, grinning at him. She’s good at lying, at pretending everything is fine. Maybe that’s why Richie and her are such good friends. “We haven’t really seen each other lately.”

“I’ve been around,” Mike says with a light laugh. “How are you, Bev?”

“I’m fine,” she tells him, and then, “Were you going to order something?”

“Oh, yeah. But you go. You were here first.” There is a beat of silence as Beverly blinks at him, and it seems to register with her that she hasn’t ordered yet, so she turns to Eddie and asks for her usual. Nodding, Eddie goes over to the soft serve machine and gets a twirl of strawberry on a waffle cone. It is quiet behind him, neither Mike nor Beverly says anything, but it is loud within Eddie’s mind, thoughts and worries of what Richie really got up to those three days eating at him. And when he hands Beverly her order, gets her cash, looks to her as she exits the store, he still can’t stop _thinking._

“Can I hear the flavor of the day?” comes Mike’s voice. Eddie glances at Mike, blinks once, and then clears his throat as his hand darts to where the special flavors are kept.

“Uh,” he says, scanning the sheet, searching for _Tuesday_ and the corresponding flavor. “Corn. The flavor of the day is corn.”

“Corn?” Mike laughs and Eddie forces a small smile, not wanting to appear off to his friend. “Is it any good?” And Eddie doesn’t mean to be annoyed, but he _is._ All he wants to do is scream and cry and question Richie—if he even bothered to show up.

“I don’t know. Maybe?”

“Okay. I’ll try it.” Eddie nods, and goes over to the hard ice cream to serve Mike the strange ice cream flavor in his usual chocolate dipped cone. He rushes it, because he is fed up with too many things, and hands it off to Mike messily, almost knocking it out of his own hand as Mike hands him the three bucks for his order.

“Sorry,” Eddie says as he punches the buttons on the cash register. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“It’s okay. Keep the change, okay?” Offering Eddie one final smile, Mike turns on his heels to make his way to the exit, which swings open upon the arrival of Richie Tozier. He glances at Mike, smiles, and holds the door open for Mike. Mike doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t do much, other than nod his head at Richie in a sort of acknowledged way. Eddie’s hands fall to his sides in clenched fists and he grits his teeth so painfully hard, eyeing Richie as he lounges over.

“Stud,” Richie says. “Sorry I’m a bit late. I got caught up with—“

“Why did you lie to me?” Eddie asks, cutting Richie off. Richie’s happy look immediately falters, and he cocks his head to the side as he gazes at Eddie strangely. As if he is about to deny it. Or act as if he has no idea what Eddie is talking about. “About Beverly? She didn’t get dumped. You lied. Why?” While Eddie would prefer to appear unbothered by this, it is so obvious, by the hurt in his eyes and in his crestfallen tone, that he is devastated.

“Okay, Eddie,” Richie begins, and Eddie knows he’s in for it because Richie is using his real name. “I’m sorry I lied. I’ll own up to it. Beverly didn’t get dumped, but I really was with her for a while.”

“For a while,” Eddie echoes, crossing his arms. _Does Richie think he’s stupid? **Is** he stupid? For even having this argument?_ “What about after a while?”

“Ugh, _Eddie,_ ” Richie whines, rubbing his eyes with his sickly hands as if this conversation takes too much out of him, drains him. “I… My parents have been fighting like fucking crazy, okay? They’ve always argued but lately it’s gotten… weird. And it can get really messy, sometimes, you know? And my mom is so sensitive and my dad, well, I told you how he is. I was just trying to be there for my mom.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me that then, Rich?” Eddie sighs, taking off his hat and tossing it in the spot under the cash register, gaze not even daring to leave Richie. Richie shifts his weight from one foot to the other and leans against the counter. “You know I’m here for you for that kind of stuff. For everything.”

“Of course I know that,” Richie replies. _But does he really?_ “I just didn’t want to have to explain all that shit. It’s bad enough to have to deal with it at home. When I’m with you I don’t wanna think of any of that stuff.” Eddie averts his eyes and grabs his bag from the where he left it on the floor. Looking at Richie makes Eddie frustrated. Because he wants to be mad but for some reason he just _can’t_ be. “I swear that’s the truth. You can even ask Stan and the others about my parents—they all know they fight.” Richie knows Eddie will not ask anybody. Perhaps that is why he suggests this. “I promise. I pinky swear. _Eddie._ ”

“Fine,” Eddie says, and he knows he is an idiot. “Don’t fuck this up.” And he means it. He doesn’t want Richie to make this any harder, doesn’t want Richie to chase him away, like he has with everyone else in his life.

“I won’t,” Richie says, grinning. “Thanks, Eddie. You’re the best.”

 _I know,_ Eddie thinks as he forces a smile. _You used to be, too._

 

 

_You’ve got to be fucking **kidding me.**_

As he paces around Stan’s bedroom, Eddie tugs at his blond hair in attempt to keep some of his anger to minimal notice of everybody else in the house. But oh, what he would give to yell at the top of his lungs, or punch a hole in the wall, or slam the door extra loud. Because Richie didn’t show up. He was supposed to pick Eddie up at seven, around the same time Stan left to go to the movies with Mike, and it’s ten o’clock now. Richie is nowhere in sight. And Eddie doesn’t know why he’s even surprised. It isn’t the first time Richie’s blown him off, and Eddie is sure it won’t be the last.

The door to Stan’s bedroom opens and Eddie looks to Stan, who has his eyebrows raised in silent question. He asks, “I thought you were hanging out with Derek tonight.”

To which Eddie replies, “So did I.” And Eddie curses himself. Hearing it out loud sounds so much more _pathetic,_ and Eddie wants to know why he’s giving Richie so many chances, why he can’t shake away from this boy even though at times it is so difficult to even _think_ about him.

But Eddie knows why. He knows why when Richie messes up Eddie prompts him with another opportunity, a kind _try again._ It’s obvious in the way he trails his fingers across Richie’s boney stomach, or how he dabs at Richie’s nose with a tissue before Richie has even noticed he is bleeding again. It’s so obvious. Eddie just doesn’t want to admit it to himself. Because, selfishly, part of Eddie thinks that if _he_ gives up on Richie, Richie will give up on himself. Everybody leaves him; Eddie’s departure was perhaps postponed, too fooled by Richie’s crooked teeth and bad jokes. And Eddie will keep postponing it. Because he isn’t a quitter. It isn’t in his blood and it never has been. Eddie likes a challenge, always has. So he is _not_ giving up on Richie.

“I’m sorry, Ed,” Stan apologizes, sighing as he goes over to the bunk beds. He steadies one hand on the ladder to his bed, and glances over at Eddie, a slanted grin planted to his lips. “Derek’s a real dick for that.”

“It’s okay,” Eddie lies. “I don’t really know why I’m surprised… He’s been acting strange lately.”

As Stan climbs up to his bed, he asks, “Strange? How?”

“It’s just… He used to be so nice. And he still is, sometimes. But something is different. He doesn’t act the same as when I first met him… and it kind of worries me,” Eddie admits, running a hand through his hair. He sits down on the bottom bunk so Stan can’t see the way his hands shake, and how his jaw refuses to stop trembling. Eddie is so _sad._ And _scared._ And he just doesn’t know what to do. It feels as though nothing makes sense anymore. And he is trying to do the right thing, to stay by Richie no matter what, help him before he does something really bad, but it’s _hard._ It is straining. Taxing.

“What worries you?” comes Stan’s voice from above. Eddie leans back against the wall, crosses his arms over his lap as he sits cross-legged. He supposes it’s about time he gets comfortable. Richie isn’t coming. That much is clear.

“I don’t know. Everything.” Eddie lets out something of a half-chuckle, though it is weak and pathetic sounding. He wonders what Stan is thinking right now. It is not often they talk so openly about Eddie’s feelings. “He’s just… skinny. You know?” But of course Stan doesn’t know, because they aren’t talking about Derek at all. They’re talking about Richie and his boney hands, boney legs, boney stomach. His sad excuse of a body. It seems to shrivel up as the days go by, but Richie is good at hiding it with baggy shirts and his stupid windbreaker. “And it makes him act different. Like he’s not at all the person I thought he was.”

“You think he’s like,” Stan pauses, perhaps considering his word choice, “Got something?”

“I don’t know,” Eddie answers. _Yes,_ he thinks. “I hope not.”

“I’m sorry, Eddie,” Stan says. There is not much else to say.

“It’s okay,” Eddie says as he pulls himself off the bottom bunk. He glances at Stan quickly, sees the pity he wears across his face, and says, “I’m gonna go brush my teeth.”

When Eddie gets back, he goes straight to bed. Not because he is tired, but because he doesn’t want to be awake anymore. He doesn’t want to think about Richie anymore. He doesn’t want to think, period.

But we don’t always get what we want; at some ungodly hour, as if Eddie is reliving his most confusing memories, there is knocking at Stan’s bedroom window. As Eddie blinks awake, he almost thinks he is imagining the noise. Yet it is too distinct for him not to notice, and too loud for Stan to stay asleep if it continues any longer. Immediately, Eddie rushes out of bed and tip toes downstairs, slowly making his way toward the front door. He doesn’t need to double check that it is Richie standing outside in the early morning darkness. He knows.

The cool air hits Eddie’s flesh as he swings the door open, tickling the school shirt and plaid pajama pants he wore to bed. He rushes to the backyard, and when he catches sight of Richie, he can’t help the anger that rushes through him. “Richie,” he whispers. Richie turns. Smiles with his teeth. “Get the fuck over here.” And so he walks over to Eddie with the most relaxed look on his face, as if showing up at Stan’s house at two, three, four AM is completely normal. As if he didn’t ditch Eddie the night before. “What the _fuck_ are you doing here?”

“I like your pajamas, stud,” Richie says, reaching out and teasingly pulling at Eddie’s shirt. “Is that a band shirt? Are you in your school’s band or somethin’?” Eddie slaps Richie’s hand away, frowning.

“You can’t be here,” Eddie tells him, and Richie’s grin falters.

“Why not?” Richie asks, his tone stern, a bit upset.

“Why _not_?” Eddie snaps, making sure his voice remains at a quiet level. “Because you were supposed to be here yesterday night, not now at three in the morning.”

“At…?” Richie looks around, at his surroundings and then up at the dark sky, and his lips pull together in a tight line, his eyes narrowing, arms crossing. “Oh,” he says, looking so disoriented and out of it and not at all like the Richie Eddie once knew. “I…I forgot.”

“I know you forgot, you dick.” Rolling his eyes, Eddie cannot believe he’s really out here, at this hour, having a fight with his boyfriend. “You’re such a fucking tool. I can’t believe I put up with you sometimes.” He says it because he’s angry, but he means it, _oh_ how he means it. And Richie must know that this is not a joke, that their bantering days are over, because he suddenly reaches out and grabs Eddie’s arm. He holds onto Eddie with such a stern grip that Eddie’s fingers try to pry him off. “R-Richie, stop. Let me go.” And Richie won’t. His pupils are blown out, wide, dark, and he just stares at Eddie, at his trembling lips and sullen pout. “Richie, stop. You’re hurting me.” _Richie, stop. You’re scaring me._

It isn’t until Eddie starts to cry that Richie lets go. Eddie can’t help his tears. They slide down his cheeks in a sudden rush and he bites his bottom lip in order to keep his sobs to himself. When Richie releases his grip on Eddie, Eddie stumbles back, almost falls. He doesn’t want to look at Richie anymore, so he doesn’t. He stares at the ground, frozen, listening to Richie’s deep breaths and the summer leaves rustle with the wind.

“You should go,” Eddie tells him.

“What?” Richie asks. “Eddie…?”

“You need to go.” Though Eddie’s voice trembles from his sobs, it is clear. Low and honest.

“Eddie,” Richie says.

“I mean it, Richie. Leave.” As Eddie sees Richie begin to walk toward him, he flinches. He does not know what will come of this, of them. But he’s scared. There is part of him that is so cowardly, but there is also a part that is strong, convinced that Eddie can do this—he can conquer whatever troubles Richie has. He can _help_ this— _fix_ it.

Richie does not grab Eddie again. Instead he starts to speak; he says, “I—“ But it falls short.

He walks away.

 

 

It is a strange thing, to begin feeling scared around somebody who used to make you feel safe. It is like reaching for something that is not there, or watching it disappear right from your fingertips. It is like being told two secrets and not knowing which to believe, and living a life in skepticism. Or rereading your favorite book and noticing something you hadn’t before, a small detail in a character’s clothes, or a quirk in their daily routine.

It is watching Richie struggle without knowing what he is struggling with. Not knowing which version of him to expect. Eddie has his suspicions, has taken note of Richie’s habits and mood swings. His aggression. How he never eats and always lies.

But Eddie stays. Oh, Eddie stays, and sometimes Eddie leans away from Richie’s kisses, feels his boyfriend’s chapped lips hit his cheek instead, and he stifles a laugh, mumbling “Sorry, Rich,” even though he is not. He holds Richie’s hands, his precious hands, and notices how they have lost color during the five weeks Richie and Eddie have been together. And sometimes, during the heat of a moment, Eddie’s hands will graze over Richie’s bare back, over the evident bones and thin flesh, and he will pause, shift, feel Richie’s mouth move from Eddie’s lips to his neck, and he ponders how thin Richie was when they first met. Eddie stays as the person Richie used to be leaves. Sometimes Eddie feels as if Richie is a living skeleton.

There are good days, too. (There are just less of them.) Days when it is almost as if Richie is still in there, somewhere, Eddie just has to find him.

Today seems okay. Richie wanted to go to the park, and Eddie agreed, yet he worried about his other friends seeing them together. He keeps that fear to himself though, and lets Richie take his hand, kiss him so sweetly, Richie’s mouth unknowingly dry, and lead him to this beautiful spot under this big, old maple tree. Richie’s light wash jeans are baggy around his waist now, Eddie notices as they sit down, and they sag against his legs as if they are ten sizes too big. Eddie wonders if Richie knows he is a mess of brittle bones. Eddie doesn’t think he does.

Their knees are barely touching, as Richie rambles on and on about school, and Beverly, and cigarettes. As Eddie mindlessly pulls grass out of the ground, collecting them all into one small, clean pile to the side of his left foot. He hears Richie, but doesn’t exactly listen. While today Richie is okay, part of Eddie doubts it will last for long. It never does.

Richie says, “But because I’m a senior this year, I get my own locker. Do you have to share lockers, too? Back in Derry?”

“Huh?” Glancing over at Richie, Eddie nods, tries not to linger on Richie’s thin face and pale complexion for too long. “Oh, yeah. But just in middle school. In high school we get our own… Last year I had a top locker.”

“A top locker? Wow,” Richie says, the smile evident in his voice. He reaches a weak hand over to Eddie and pats his knee. Perhaps this is an attempt to get Eddie to look at him, or at least smile back, but Eddie doesn’t want to. It is hard to even fake it, enjoying Richie’s company, ever since that night in Stan’s backyard, when Richie had grabbed Eddie’s arm with an iron grip. The thought still makes Eddie wince. Brings a phantom pain to his upper arm. And while that was scary, what is even more terrifying is Richie having no recollection of ever doing it; the following day, he had staggered over to Stan’s house with a lonely white flower in his right hand, beaming. Eddie had gone outside to tell Richie to go away, that he wasn’t feeling well, but Richie seemed completely unaware that he had been there just hours before. So Eddie had taken the flower that looked so much like Richie, so sickly and delicate, like vitreous antiques, and he had let him drive him to work.

“Yeah, a top locker,” Eddie continues, and he feels Richie lean toward him, rest his head on Eddie’s shoulder. It is okay, Eddie tells himself. Richie is okay. Today is fine. “I don’t want to go back to school. School sucks.”

“Yeah. It would be better if—“ Richie stops midsentence at the sound of a low, wolf whistle. Both he and Eddie look over to the walking path, where a tall boy, dressed in neon colors and confidence, stands with his girlfriend, who looks much of the same. Eddie has never seen either of these people, and he doesn’t think Richie has either, judging by the look of confusion written across his face. Richie lifts his head from Eddie’s shoulder and shifts so he is sitting up properly.

“New boyfriend, Tozier?” the boy says, letting out a hardy laugh whereas his girlfriend settles for a maniacal giggle. Crossing his arms, Eddie shrinks into himself, just a little, because he truly does not want to be here for the exchange that he knows is about to happen. “And you’ve got your little nails painted, too—I thought earrings were as queer as it gets. At least I don’t have to ask who the girl in the relationship is.” There is a moment of silence, a beat of fear that rushes through Eddie, and a beat of something else that seems to overcome Richie. He rises to his feet, slowly but steadily, looking limber and shriveled up. A ghost of what he used to be. “Whoa, someone’s feeling brave today.”

And it all happens so quickly—Richie’s face contorting as he bolts toward this guy who is so much taller and stronger than him. The guy’s girlfriend screams, rightfully, as her boyfriend and Richie scramble to get a good grip on one another, fighting to see who can get the first hit. But Eddie has gone radio silent, both hands behind him as he gazes up at the scene unfolding before him. And then it’s Richie—the first swing, raising his fist back so far as he squeezes the chest of this guy’s shirt within his fingers. His fist flies forward, knocks the guy right in the mouth, and his girl is still screaming, Eddie still just watching.

“ _Stop!”_ Eddie hears her shout, and he is suddenly aware that this is real, this is happening, and he blinks away the hazy fog that has surrounded him, rises to his shaking feet. Yet he is still rendered speechless, lifeless. He can’t get his feet to move. And Richie keeps pulling his fist back, whacking this guy in the face, and then when the guy staggers, and falls backwards, Richie keeps going. The guy is down but Richie keeps going. And Eddie can only watch with terrified eyes. “Fucking _stop_! You’re gonna kill him!”

 _You’re gonna kill him,_ she shouts. And it’s directed at Richie. At Richie who is sitting atop her boyfriend, beating his face in so hard his knuckles must be bleeding, too. Who cannot seem to think through his fury, who doesn’t even notice when Eddie’s hand is on his shoulder, and then around his torso, pulling, tugging, desperately trying to separate the two bloody boys. Eddie hears the fear in his voice as he says, “Richie, _stop._ Richie, _you’re gonna kill him._ ” He lifts his head to glance over Richie’s shoulder, but on Richie’s next swing, when he rushes his arm back, fist steady, his elbow knocks Eddie right in the nose. It sends Eddie onto his back, wincing, backing away from Richie and the boy.

This is when Richie stops, because he turns his head to look back at Eddie, at the destruction his mysterious outrage has caused.

And that’s when Eddie feels it. The blood dripping from both nostrils, slipping it’s way between his bitten lips, the taste of iron fresh in his mouth. Richie must notice, because his eyes change, soften, in a way they haven’t in so long. But Eddie doesn’t cry. He doesn’t even wipe away the blood. He is too distracted by the movement below where Richie sits, at the boy quickly enclosing Richie’s neck between both of his hands.

“Stop, Matt! Oh my _god!_ ” _There she is_ , Eddie thinks, the girl still screaming and crying. _There they are,_ he thinks, as the police sirens become clearer, closer, and before Eddie knows it the boy is being hauled away from Richie, his face all bloodied and swollen, and Richie is being held down by his arms. “Holy shit. He didn’t _do_ anything!” The girl shouts at a policeman, but how are they to know who started the fight and who intended on finishing it. A policeman even helps Eddie up, offers him a towel for his nose, asks him what happened and doesn’t get mad when Eddie says _I don’t know._ Because he doesn’t. He has _no clue_ what just happened. All Eddie remembers is the crazy look in Richie’s eyes, and how it had disappeared as quickly as it had come.

Richie and the boy are driven away in the backseat of the police car. Eddie doesn’t hear from Richie for a few days. But it’s okay. He doesn’t really want to.

 

 

The phone call is short, to the point, yet Eddie sort of wishes the phone never rang in the first place. He wishes that he hadn’t gotten up and answered it, lonely in Stan’s house. He wishes he listened to the steady beeping, let it ring into oblivion. But he hadn’t. He’s too kind, too determined, to ignore Richie. So he answers with, “Hello?”

“Eddie! Stud, hey.” Eddie tenses, and holds the phone closer to his ear; even though he is home alone he is still wary of somebody hearing Richie’s loud and obnoxious chatter on the other line. “Sorry for not calling sooner. It’s been a really messy three days,” Richie says it with a laugh, oh so casual. “The police wanted to like, arrest me, or something. But my dad’s a real good talker. So it’s okay.”

“Okay,” Eddie says quietly, twirling the phone cord around his index finger, a nervous tick he’s developed. And Richie must realize something is off, because his voice gets a lot softer, more concerned, like moving closer to the phone will comfort Eddie.

“It was self-defense,” Richie tells him, but Eddie knows better. Almost killing somebody is not self-defense. Especially not when you threw the first punch. “You heard what he said about me.”

“I know what he said, Rich.” Eddie sighs, touching his nose as if the wound is still fresh. All that is left is a small bruise. The swelling has gone down. Explaining _that_ to Eddie’s mother was extremely difficult. _I just tripped on my walk home from work, Ma,_ Eddie had told her. “I just… You hit him first.”

“Yeah, because he’s a total tool,” Richie sneers. “Calling me queer and making fun of my nail polish.”

“Yeah okay, Rich,” Eddie replies unconvincingly. “I gotta go.” On the other line, Richie scoffs.

“You seriously can’t be mad at me,” he says in disbelief. “Eddie, seriously?”

“I’m not mad,” Eddie lies. “My mom is calling me. You know how she gets. I’ll see you soon.” And he doesn’t want to hear Richie’s protests, his useless defenses, so he pulls the phone away from his ear and slams it onto the wall. He stands in the Uris’ kitchen breathing deeply, heavily, and he doesn’t know what to do. Nothing makes sense and everything is ruined, so suddenly, too, as if all at once—and how quickly it has fallen.

 

 

Eddie swats the Ping-Pong ball over Stan’s right shoulder, and whoops in joy, having scored another point. Stan groans, and puts his paddle down on the table to glare at Eddie. Stan says, “How long has Bill even been gone? Feels like he’s taking forever.” Shrugging, Eddie twiddles his paddle in his hands, unsure of how to propose this topic. But since Bill’s absence, Eddie has been wanting to ask about Richie; he wants to know what exactly drove Stan and Richie apart, and if it is the same thing that seems to be driving Eddie and Richie apart.

“You know that guy? Richie?” Eddie asks, and he cringes at how absolutely _not_ casual he sounds. But he watches as Stan’s face contorts into one of annoyance, eyebrows drawing together and lip curling up on one side, miming mild disgust. “I mean… you used to be friends with him, didn’t you?” Eddie adds, hoping it’ll make his words sound more curious and less like he’s involved with Richie.

“Yeah. Why?” Stan questions, crossing his arms. He shifts his weight from one foot to another, and Eddie knows he’s prodding at a touchy subject, knows he should say never mind and continue the game, or go inside to help Bill get the snacks. But he doesn’t. He can’t. Not when Richie is acting out, being violent and impulsive. “Did he talk to you?”

“Only once,” Eddie answers quickly, coughing awkwardly afterwards. He is so terrible at trying to act normal. “He came to buy ice cream. Plenty of people do, Stan.” Eddie tries to shrug this off, like it is not a big deal, but Stan only looks angrier as he huffs quietly and draws his eyes away from his cousin. It looks as if Stan is worried, concerned.

“Eddie, don’t talk to him,” Stan replies, voice dour. “He’s trash. You’re too good for him.”

“What? I wasn’t—“

“I know your type.” And then it is quiet, the honesty of Stan’s statement perpetually floating in the air surrounding them. Eddie feels bad for bringing this up, but even worse for defying Stan in the first place. It is so obviously something Eddie should not have done. Something he should not have even _considered._ But he did, he _has,_ so what does that make him? An awful friend? An unbearable family member? “Just don’t.” Eddie doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t want to make this sour situation any worse than it already is.

“I’m serving,” Stan says, bending down and picking up the Ping-Pong ball. And his anger seems to benefit his game; he swings his paddle back, knocking the ball straight over Eddie’s shoulder.

One point to Stan.

 

 

“Hey,” Richie says to Eddie, grinning wildly, eyes blown out. He leans in to kiss Eddie on the mouth but Eddie turns his head, feels Richie’s lips on his tan cheek instead. “Why’d you ditch my kiss, stud? Wanna smooch ya.” Eddie laughs half-heartedly, forced and uncomfortable, and puts his hand over Richie’s as it finds it’s way to Eddie’s thigh. Richie pulls away from Eddie, and Eddie glances over at him, in the driver’s seat, catches sight of his frown and furrowed brows. “What’s wrong?”

“No—nothing’s wrong,” Eddie answers, moving to put his free hand on Richie’s face. Richie’s complexion is white, oddly dry, as Eddie draws their lips together in a quick kiss. This seems to satisfy Richie’s insecurity, but he almost follows Eddie’s mouth when Eddie draws back. And Eddie _gets it._ They don’t kiss anymore. They don’t do _anything_ anymore. Richie is just… different, and Eddie doesn’t always want to do that stuff with him. On days when Richie stares off into space, or ‘accidentally’ hits his head on the steering wheel, Eddie doesn’t want to kiss him, or hold his hand. He wants to get out of the car and go far away.

But that’s what everyone does. That’s what everyone _did._ And Eddie’s not everyone. He’s Eddie. He’s _stud._ He won’t leave. Not when Richie is scary, or distant, or aggressive, because Eddie refuses to lose Richie.

“How’s your mom?” Eddie asks, desperate to change the subject.

Sighing, Richie’s arm travels across Eddie’s shoulders. He answers plainly, curls tickling Eddie’s skin, “She’s okay. Been working lately.” He turns his head and rests his chin atop Eddie’s blond hair, perhaps gazing out the window on Eddie’s side of the car, too.

“And your dad?” This is an attempt at conversation, though dull and boring. Eddie is at a loss for what to talk about with Richie anymore, or what to do at all, but he hates sitting in silence.

“He’s already bothering me about grades,” Richie says softly. “School hasn’t even started yet and he’s bothering me about my grades. Classic Went Tozier. Always on brand.”

“I’m sorry,” Eddie replies, squeezing Richie’s hand. “Has he always been like that?”

“Ever since I can remember. My mom used to try and get him to lay off but now that I’m older she doesn’t speak up as much. But it’s okay,” Richie says. “It’s whatever.” _It’s not whatever,_ Eddie thinks. Every part of his body aches for Richie. For his bothersome father and troublesome habits. “How’s Ms. K?” Humming, Eddie stretches a hand over to the crank to roll down the window. The breeze interjects the huddled up couple, and Eddie strays away from Richie’s touch, using the fresh air as an excuse. “Asthma?” Richie guesses. Eddie nods, the lie falling so easily from him.

“She’s okay. The same. I don’t expect her to change anymore,” Eddie says, gazing out the window at the several houses lined up on this street. He isn’t sure where they are; Richie had driven them to a calmer part of town to just talk and hang out. “Anyway. What are we gonna do? Wanna get food?” _Another pointless attempt,_ but Eddie waits in the quiet to see if Richie will take the bait. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t.

“Thought we could maybe go—“ Richie stops midsentence, which is peculiar, never done before, so Eddie swivels around in the passenger’s seat to get look at what’s happened. Though Richie’s eyes seem to be trained on something out Eddie’s window, his hand curling around Eddie’s shoulder, grasping it firmly. “Eddie,” Richie says suddenly, and Eddie’s eyebrows draw together in question.

“What is it, Richie?” Eddie questions, and there is that feeling of uneasiness again, always creeping up on him when he least expects it, when it feels like everything is normal and all right. He stares at Richie, at his pale-dry parted lips and widening eyes, crooked yellow teeth and constellation freckles.

“That guy,” Richie states vaguely. “How long has he been there?” When Eddie turns to look at the man Richie is referring to, he only sees somebody innocently checking their mailbox. Feeling Richie’s breath on the back of Eddie’s neck, Eddie feels goose bumps form along his skin and is immediately swept with a feeling of uncertainty.

“He’s just getting his mail,” Eddie replies, looking back at the man who is now heading inside his house. “See? He’s going now.”

“No he’s not,” Richie says, and he sounds afraid. Eddie feels his hand retract from his thigh, and when he glances over, Richie already has both hands on the wheel and determination strung across his expression, hidden in the depths of his dark eyes and the frown on his thin lips. “No he’s not Eddie, _look._ ” So Eddie does. But the man is gone. The only proof of him ever being there is his mailbox, which now stands empty on the green grass, reflecting the yellow sunshine on its metal surface, red flag down. “ _Look,_ Eddie! Fucking _look!_ ”

“Richie there’s nothing there.” There is a shakiness to Eddie’s voice. An obvious terror to his response. “Richie, you’re—“ Before Eddie can even utter out the rest of his sentence, Richie’s car is roaring to life and beginning its trip down this deserted street. Eddie is thrown back in his seat, quivering hands immediately flying up to his seatbelt, racing heartbeat a warning. He buckles himself in as he speaks, shouting, “Richie! Stop! You’re gonna get us both killed!” And when he’s strapped into his seat, he puts a hand on Richie’s shoulder, searching his face for some sort of acknowledgement, or understanding, yet there is none. There is only fear written in the wrinkles of Richie’s face. “Stop the car! Richie. _Stop._ ” It is almost as if Richie’s foot has been glued to the gas pedal, as if he was never even taught how to use the brakes.

“He’s following us, Eddie!” Finally Richie speaks, but his words are not healthy; they do not make sense, even as Eddie turns in his seat to stare out the back window. There is no man following them. Not even another car accompanying them on this road. (Which Eddie is partially grateful for. He doubts Richie would stop for any pedestrian like this.) “He’s following us! Look! Don’t you fucking _see_ him!” And Eddie doesn’t. Oh, how Eddie wishes someone _were_ following them, because being followed is scary, but it isn’t half as scary as Richie imagining it. “Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my fucking—!”

“Richie, stop the car,” Eddie says calmly, trying a new approach to this situation. “Richie, he’s not going to follow us anymore, okay? Just stop the car. You’re going way too fast.” There are tears in Richie’s eyes as he blinks feverishly, and Eddie catches sight of the _Now Leaving Leeside_ sign to the right of the red mustang. “Richie, I won’t let that guy do anything to you. Okay? Okay? Richie?!”

“Eds—You don’t _get_ it,” Richie says through a choked sob, and Eddie is so scared. He has never seen Richie cry before. He has never seen Richie like _this_ before. At a loss for what else to do, Eddie squeezes Richie’s shoulder with his left hand and touches Richie’s face with his other. Richie hesitates to lean into Eddie’s touch.

“So explain it to me, okay?” Eddie says in a quiet voice. He thinks he is barely speaking at an audible level considering how loud the car is being. Eddie doesn’t even know what Richie is talking about, has no clue where this sudden mania came from. He just knows if Richie doesn’t stop the car soon they could both end up really hurt, or dead at the side of the road. “Explain it to me and I’ll try to get it.”

“No!” Richie says, pushing Eddie’s hands away so he can focus on driving. “You won’t get it. Nobody ever does. I’m so fucking _sick_ of this—this—I’m so!” Richie shouts, and his lips pull into a thin line across his face, nostrils flaring, and there is that rage Eddie has become so familiar with. This is bad. This is really, really bad. And Eddie doesn’t know what to do. But he sits in his seat and bites back tears, digging his nails into the skin of his knees as he folds into himself, craving comfort but lacking a partner to give it. And it hits Eddie all at once—when he is crying softly and avoiding looking at the road—that he doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to be a part of _this_ anymore. It’s scary and Eddie doesn’t know how to make it better. Doesn’t know how to bring Richie back to normal, how to stop his body from losing more weight or how to prevent his nose being so dry.

And Eddie looks at Richie, just looks. With tearstained cheeks and weary eyes. And then suddenly, as he sees Richie’s fingers fixate on the steering wheel, and as he hears the car’s engine push on, loudly, unafraid, Eddie realizes that maybe not everything can be fixed with a helping hand. Maybe not everything can _be_ fixed. Or maybe Richie is just not meant for fixing.

He only cries harder. He must cry for an hour straight, the wind rapidly blowing his hair askew. Eddie doesn’t even know how long Richie drives, only that he doesn’t stop. That he doesn’t slow down for lights or cars, and that he honks his horn at every passing car as if he is warning them to stay back. As if there is still a part of Richie that cares.

Richie does stop when it’s dark out. He pulls over to the side of the road and lets out a deep breath, as if they have run all this way and not driven a car here. Eddie cannot see Richie, and he doesn’t want to; his knees are pulled up to his chest and his face is buried within them, staring at his lap with an empty feeling in his gut. Though he feels a hand rest on his shoulder, and he shakes it off, away, as if Richie’s touch has a burn to it, and maybe it does. Eddie hears Richie let out a confused, “What?” Like he doesn’t know why Eddie is upset. Like he has no clue Eddie is scared.

“Eddie, what’s wrong? Are you crying?” Richie asks.

And Eddie can’t keep it in anymore, he whips his head up so fast that his neck aches, but he doesn’t care. He looks to Richie with wild eyes and a quivering jaw, and, still choked up with his tears, he cries, “I-I am crying! I’m f-fucking crying b-b-because you’re s-s-scaring me! I want to g-go home! T-Take me home! Right n-now!”

“Wha…?” Richie looks pained to see Eddie’s wet cheeks, and he reaches out to brush away some of his tears, but Eddie shies away. “What did I do?”

“W-What did you do?” Eddie lets out something of a sob-laugh. An ugly sound that comes from the back of his throat, that makes his nose run and his fists clench. He doesn’t care. “Y-You almost killed me! Y-You almost killed _you_! A-And you don’t even—“ Eddie pauses, lets out a deep breath and untangles his arms from his legs, dropping his feet to the floor of Richie’s car as he crosses his arms. “T-Take me home, Richie. I-I don’t want to do this now.”

“Do what… Eddie?”

“Take me home.” No stutter, no sob. He’s serious.

The drive back is long. Too long to sit in silence but they do. Eddie refuses to talk, and Richie doesn’t seem keen on trying. Richie is, at least, out of his head now. Not blinded by fear or anger like he was before. But Eddie is tired. He needs a break. Richie is too much.

It is night by the time Richie pulls in front of Stan’s house, and Eddie can’t be bothered to scold him for not leaving him around the corner, for parking right in front where everybody can see.

“Eddie—“ Richie tries to say, but Eddie slams the car door shut and marches his way up the Uris’ porch. He says nothing, but waves goodbye to Richie, but only for him to know he should get out of here. When Richie finally speeds off, probably pissed again, Eddie can’t help but fall to his knees and let out a shrieked sob. _I thought I was going to die today,_ Eddie thinks to himself. _How did I not die?_

Eddie is in such distress that he doesn’t even hear the front door open.

“Eddie—? Was that R—?” Stan’s voice cuts short, his gaze most likely falling to his crestfallen cousin. “Eddie! Oh my god. What’s wrong?” Eddie feels Stan’s hands on his back, and he can’t help but cry harder, because Stan is concerned, and he’s being so nice, and if Eddie had just _listened_ to Stan in the first place, if he had just stayed away from Richie, avoided his advances, had a _normal_ summer, none of this would have happened. He would not be here sobbing, feeling both terrified and relieved at the same time. “Eddie, what happened?” Stan’s voice is so soft, a kind whisper in Eddie’s ear as his chest continues to tighten, as his heartbeat refuses to slow. “Eddie.”

“I-I don’t know w-w-what happened, Stan,” Eddie cries, pulling his head out from his lap so he can look Stan in the eye when he confesses all that he had done, all the lies he has told and all the regrets he has had for not listening. “H-He wasn’t so _bad_ but then he _was_ a-a-and I just—I was so _scared_. I thought he was going to k-kill me o-o-or something I just—“ Taking a sharp breath, Eddie can’t speak anymore. It is too difficult of a task to talk through his childish weeping. “Stan, _I’m so sorry._ ”

“Eddie,” Stan says calmly, his hand still on Eddie’s back, still trying to console his cousin even though he must be catching on to what he is being told. Stan is not stupid. He saw Richie’s car. He’s heard Eddie’s half-explanation. He must know. “Let’s go inside. Okay?”

“Stan—“ Eddie chokes out. “I’m _sorry._ I should have listened and I-I didn’t and—“

“Eddie,” Stan repeats as he stands up. “Let’s go inside. I’ll get you a glass of water and you can lie down.” Eddie nods, but only because he knows Stan will not take no for an answer, and he rises on wobbly legs, reaching out and taking a fistful of Stan’s shirt as he attempts to catch his balance, thrown into a disorientated mess due to his sudden sobs. He lets Stan lead him inside, and watches as Stan stops in the kitchen to get two glasses of water. And they walk upstairs quietly. The only sound accompanying them is Eddie’s ragged breathing and sniffles. When they get to Stan’s bedroom, Stan shuts the door without a word, and eyes Eddie as he sits on the bottom bunk cross-legged. He joins Eddie on the bed, sits with his feet hanging off the edge.

“I should be mad at you,” Stan tells Eddie, but there is not an ounce of anger written between his words. Absolutely nothing. He sounds relaxed, if anything, though it is probably taking everything in him not to have a rightful outburst. It isn’t as if Eddie would judge Stan for yelling at him. It’s what he _expects._ Stan told Eddie not to do _one thing,_ and Eddie went and did it anyway. Eddie would be mad. He would be furious. But he has a suspicion if he were not crying Stan would not be so polite about this situation. “I should be really mad, and part of me is, because I told you, Eddie. I _told_ you.”

“I know,” Eddie replies meekly.

“I fucking _told_ you. And—And Richie should have known better. He _knew_ what he was—” Sighing, Stan runs a hand through his hair. “This is just like him, Eddie. This is why I didn’t want you talking to him. He doesn’t care about anybody but himself.” _I thought he cared about me,_ the embarrassing thought crosses Eddie’s mind and he tosses it away with a shudder, _I thought a lot of things about him._ “And you kept it from me because you knew I wouldn’t like it, which… _ugh_.”

“I-I just thought that… maybe you guys were being mean or something.” Stan raises his eyebrows at Eddie’s accusation, and Eddie is quick to defend himself. “He didn’t _seem_ bad at first. He was nice to me, and he called me cute and he’s just _so_ … like _that._ ” Stan looks away from Eddie, his gaze settling on his bedroom wall instead. While it makes Eddie’s heart sink, he understands. “But then he got… weird. It was really scary, Stan. It was like he had his bad moments, and then all of his moments seemed bad. And then…” Recalling what happened this afternoon nearly brings Eddie to tears again, so he rubs his eyes as if that is a good method of prevention. (It’s not.) “I don’t know. He’s so _scary._ Being around him makes me so scared now, Stan.”

“I know,” Stan says, and Eddie searches his face for a clue into how he is feeling, yet he comes away with nothing. Stan’s blue eyes are narrowed, his eyebrows sewn together in frustration, or maybe annoyance. Hair tossed over his head in an unkempt mess. Smile nowhere to be seen. “Being around him really scared me, too.” The confession is so quiet, the acquaintance to a whisper. And Eddie’s heart _hurts,_ because Stan _gets it_. He hadn’t wanted Eddie to talk to Richie because he didn’t want Eddie to feel this fear, this hurt… and perhaps, he hadn’t wanted Eddie to care for Richie, either; letting go of someone once you care for them is _so_ , so hard. “It scared all of us. What he became.”

Eddie’s mouth runs dry, hand twitching, a question eager on his tongue. He asks, “And what did he become?” Stan doesn’t answer for a long while. The silence stretches far, from Stan’s bedroom to the staircase to the empty living room downstairs. Part of Eddie doubts Stan will reply, doubts he will uncover the tension between his cousin and his boyfriend.

But then Stan starts to talk, shaky voice a clue to the sadness he feels, “Richie’s always been a good student, but toward the end of sophomore year he started to flunk a bunch of his classes. Like… Spanish, and History. And he’s so smart; he’s always been the kind of person who doesn’t need to study, so he never did. But as the classes got harder, I guess, he started doing worse and worse.” Eddie doesn’t know where this story is going, doesn’t understand the relevance of Richie’s grades when discussing his strange behavior this summer. “And his dad… his dad got like, really mad—his parents are cool, for the most part, but his dad has always really cared about Richie’s grades. Says Richie needs to exceed in high school in order to go to a good college, which I _get_ , but he put such a weight on Richie’s shoulders that…”

“That what?” Eddie pushes. The story has just started. He wants to hear it. Even the ugly parts.

“Richie would stay up late trying to study, and he was really trying, Eddie. I’ve never seen him try so hard at _anything._ And it wasn’t even good enough. He didn’t do better. He was just burning energy. And since he was staying up so late all the time, he started falling asleep earlier and earlier.”

 _So what?_ Eddie thinks.

“And then this kid in our grade told him he started using.” _Using._ The word sits with Eddie. He knows what this means, has heard it before, once or twice, whispered between classes or yelled across the lunchroom. His blood runs cold. **_Using._** “Eddie—he said it was only gonna be for a few weeks. Just until school ended. Until his grades got up and he didn’t need the extra energy.” Stan’s voice begins to waver, uneasiness slipping between his words, and Eddie watches as Stan’s hands grip his knees, nails digging into his skin, the sweet release. “We didn’t know it would be bad. He said he would stop. He said he would _stop._ ” And as Stan squeezes his eyes shut, like he is trying to wake himself from a horrible nightmare, Eddie feels a lump in his throat.

“What does he do?” Eddie asks, not because he wants to know but because he needs to.

“Coke.” Stan’s reply feels so heavy, sitting so out in the open. Neither boy says anything. Perhaps because neither knows what to say, or perhaps they both just wish this wasn’t real. Wish they didn’t have to think about it. All Eddie knows is that Richie acts differently sometimes, laughs too loud or stares too long, gets too many nosebleeds and doesn’t eat. And it makes sense now. His body has been functioning on autopilot, almost, having to adjust to something so harmful running through Richie’s system. Injected into his veins or snorted up his nose. “It was just at the end of the school year, he said. He’ll stop once he finishes his last test.”

“And that’s why you’re not friends anymore?” Eddie questions, still in shock. It feels as though his head is spinning, light headedness taking over. “Because he does drugs?” Stan sighs, rubs his eyes. Eddie mirrors his actions; he is tired of this conversation already, yet knows it is nowhere near to being finished.

“We’re not friends because he almost got us all arrested,” Stan says. _He… he what?_

“What?” At first, this is almost unbelievable. Eddie shifts, scratches the back of his neck in anticipation, anxious for the story that is to come. He knows that Richie is difficult, that he is an addict. That he put Eddie in harm’s way without meaning to, as if he couldn’t help it. So… it makes sense. As much as Eddie longs it to be a silly accusation on Stan’s part, he knows it’s true, and so he asks: “What happened?”

“We were all hanging out… Rich, Ben, Mike, Beverly, and Bill. We were on our way to the movies and Richie was driving us there, because he’s fucking obsessed with that stupid car,” Stan says this with a small chuckle, as if the thought of Richie’s car brings back memories that are more bearable, enjoyable. Though his face is still warped by his inevitable sadness. Eddie feels as though he should be comforting Stan, but he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know if reaching for his hand or giving him a hug would be too weird for a vulnerable moment like this. “Richie said we were making a quick stop. I figured it was the store, or the gas station, but he pulled off to the side of the road outside the ice cream shop. There was this… guy waiting for him there. Like Richie knew about this before any of us even decided to hang out. He…” Stan sighs angrily, and Eddie feels for him. It must be painful to recall this. This was the day Stan lost his best friend. “It was a drug deal, Eddie. He brought us all to his fucking _drug deal._ To buy his fucking dust. And—And we weren’t okay with what he was doing in the first place, but it was supposed to be a short-term thing, you know? He was supposed to stop. None of us were supposed to be a part of it… He was supposed to keep us _out of it._ ”

_What happened next? Tell me. I want to know._

“The cops turned the corner before any of us could even think about leaving… Richie didn’t even _see_ the car at first. But when the sirens turned on, the guy he met up with totally freaked and walked away.”

“What? Did Richie have it on him?” Eddie asks, worried about a situation that happened months ago.

“We didn’t know. The cop got out of his car and came over to talk to us,” Stan says. “His hand was on his belt the whole time. Like he didn’t care if he had to get physical… like…” Shuddering, Stan breaks off at the end of his sentence and threads his fingers through his hair instead. He tugs on his curls. “Fifteen minutes. He talked to Richie and each of us. He looked at Mike too long. We were all scared to death.”

“Did he leave?” Eddie thinks if he were there he would have cried. He has never been approached by the police before, has never considered the odds.

“He did.” Stan hums. “Rich got back in the car and booted it up like nothing happened.” Furrowing his brows, Eddie is confused as to how Richie was not affected more. If he were the one with the drugs, wouldn’t he be _most_ concerned? “And I just… snapped.” The reality of this situation is terrifying. “Richie didn’t even have anything. He didn’t get what he stopped for, but he let all of us worry for those fifteen minutes we were being questioned. He _knew_ we would be okay. But he’s so fucking—“ Stan huffs, his hands in his lap scrunching into two firm fists. Reliving this anger must be difficult for him. “He let us think we were going to get arrested, Eddie—we _could have_ gotten arrested if the cop had come just a few seconds later—and for what? I wasn’t going to jail. Neither were the others.”

“Stan,” Eddie says, breathless. “I’m so sorry. This is… it’s awful. I’m sorry.”

Stan ignores Eddie’s condolences, and instead persists, “We tried to talk to him—but he wouldn’t _listen._ Richie never fucking listens. Everything is always a fucking joke with him… Even when he started to deal. He thought he was such a clever shit, parking outside Scoops N’ Smiles to supply people’s ice cream habit.” _Ice cream habit._ The phrase makes Eddie quirk an eyebrow, and Stan must take notice to his confusion, because he clarifies, “It’s slang. Someone has an ice cream habit when they use.”

“And that’s why,” Eddie thinks out loud. He sighs, pushing back against his bedcovers and settling against the wall in a comfortably slumped position, his legs splayed out in front of him and his arms at his sides.

“I tried again and again with him,” Stan says, in the smallest voice he seems to be able to muster. Eddie glances at him, at his torn up expression. And Eddie is so sorry. “After weeks of trying with him… I decided I’d had enough. His bullshit couldn’t be my responsibility anymore… He’s lucky Beverly still stands by him.”

“But…” Eddie’s heart aches. For both Richie and Stan. He sees both sides, has experienced both stories, yet he longs to take some kind of action. It’s the right thing to do. Isn’t it? “Shouldn’t we help him? He’s only getting worse and worse. You should have seen him today… he was so… We can help him, can’t we?” And Stan turns his head, meets Eddie’s eyes. The corners of his lips turn upwards in a heartbroken smile, his eyes a little glassy.

Stan says, “You can’t help someone who doesn’t want your help. I’ve already tried.” And with just that, it suddenly hits Eddie that Stan is right. It is not Eddie’s responsibility, like it is not Stan’s. It is Richie’s job to pick himself up. There is no _fixing_ him, like Eddie once thought there was.

“Aren’t you worried about him?” he asks softly. Eddie just wants to know if Stan’s chest is heavy too, filled up with the same sorrow that consumes him. “Don’t you worry every second you’re not with him?” Stan exhales through his nose, seemingly amused by Eddie’s question.

His reply is light and tender, “Of course I worry, Eddie. He was my best friend. But he makes being friends with him so fucking difficult… I had to choose my health over his.” Stan shrugs his shoulder up to his chin, blinking. “Call me selfish, I guess.” But Eddie doesn’t think that at all; he stares at Stan with an idolized luster written into his brown eyes as he achingly searches for comfort and desperately tries to find it within himself.

 _I don’t think that’s selfish,_ Eddie wants to say, _I think that’s brave._

“You think I wanted to lose my best friend?” Stan asks, sounding uncharacteristically docile. “I lost him to drugs, Ed. I wasn’t gonna lose myself, too.” Finally, Eddie reaches for Stan’s hand, covering it with his fingers as if that is enough protection to shield his cousin from his distress. He feels Stan’s hand stiffen, then relax. “You just can’t spend your time trying to fix somebody who won’t listen. It sucks, but it’s true. You can’t fix somebody. It just isn’t possible.”

This is not the truth Eddie wants, but it is the one the world has given him.

 

 

Eddie doesn’t need to seek out Richie to have one final conversation with him, because he turns up at Stan’s porch early in the morning, around eight o’clock, when Eddie’s mother and aunt and uncle are still home. When Stan is upstairs sleeping in his bed, Richie rattles the front door with an iron fist. And Sonia answers. _That_ is what wakes Eddie from his slumber, spit stained bottom lip and wide-eyed, he trembles, rushing down the stairs at the sound of Richie’s voice. Richie asks, “Is Eddie home?”

Eddie hears his mother ask, “ _Who_ are _you?_ ” And for once in his life, Eddie doesn’t blame her for the tone she uses, or the way she stands judgmentally with her hand on her hip, because Richie looks a mess. He is a skinny, gangly mess, purple bags under his troubled gaze, and his teeth look rotten even from the living room table, where Eddie stares at him nervously. Eddie puts his hands on his mother’s shoulder, and she turns to look at him, disturbed by his appearance but more so by the words he speaks.

Eddie says, “Ma, it’s fine. He’s a friend from work.” Sonia glances at Eddie’s face, and he hopes she cannot read the discomfort he wears. “It’ll be quick,” he adds. _I hope it will._

Before Sonia can reply, Eddie pushes past her lightly and shuts the door behind him, leaving both him and Richie outside in the company of summer sun. Eddie’s palms grow clammy, because it is hot out and because he is nervous, and his sweatpants hang from his legs too loosely. The way Richie glances up and down his body makes his heartbeat quicken, but not in the good way it has previously. Eddie is _scared._ He doesn’t like the shine to Richie’s eyes, or his crooked shark-like teeth, or how his windbreaker sleeps across his shoulders, making him look similar to a child in his father’s clothing.

“You can’t be here,” Eddie tells him, and he leans against the Uris’ front door to remind himself that he can go back inside anytime. That Stan is just upstairs, sleeping away, and he would not hesitate to tell Richie to fuck off. Eddie is reminded of the first time Richie showed up here, how he had begged Eddie for a ride. And then the second time, which seemed to have been a turning point in Richie’s manic behavior. Eddie feels like a broken record, nowadays, in almost every of his conversations with Richie. “You need to leave.”

“Stud, what?” Richie questions. Eddie purses his lips.

“ _Don’t_ call me that,” he snaps, twisting his small fingers around the door handle in an attempt to ground himself, to remind himself that this is reality, and that reality is scary.

“Okay, _Eddie._ What did I do?” Richie asks, and though he looks like a monster he does not sound like one. At least not right now, he doesn’t. And it makes Eddie think about how Richie had seemed so charming, and kind, and sweet, and flirty, and how the summer had started off on such a wonderful note. Eddie would give anything to go back to his first week in Leeside. He would do so many things differently… He would tell himself to not fall for Richie’s antics. He would look himself in his starry eyes and say, _Just because he’s losing his mind doesn’t mean you need to lose yours._

“Stan told me everything,” Eddie admits, and he watches as Richie’s face contorts into one of confusion, and maybe even betrayal. “So you need to leave. I don’t want to see you anymore.”

“ _Eddie._ ” There is obvious desperation in Richie’s strained voice. “I… I can come back later… or—”

“No!” Eddie says, short. “I don’t want to see you anymore. Not now and not tomorrow and not the next day after that. So just… Go.”

“Wait,” Richie says. “Are you… Are you breaking up with me?”

“Richie—leave. I don’t want to look at you anymore.” Looking at Richie brings a new kind of fear, Eddie realizes: a fear of ending up like him. _This is who my mother warned me about,_ Eddie thinks.

“I don’t understand—“

“You _scare_ me!” Eddie shouts, louder than he intended. Immediately he shrinks into himself, crossing his arms over his chest and lowering his head, a gesture of the shame he feels. _I shouldn’t feel bad. I’m just being honest… right?_ “Being with you is _so_ scary. I-I don’t want to be with you when you’re like this.” Richie’s face is blank. It is almost as though he had expected these words to fall from Eddie’s trembling lips. It is almost as though this has happened to him before. “If you keep doing… I just… I can’t, Richie. This isn’t you…” _This isn’t the boy I once liked._ “You can’t keep doing—“ Eddie stops, too scared to finish his sentence. To tell Richie, _You can’t keep doing this to yourself._

And all at once, Richie’s anger seems to settle within; his arms swing at his sides and the veins on his neck spike up, jaw clenched, teeth gritted, lips parting as he spits, “So that’s it?” Eddie doesn’t know what to say. Eddie doesn’t really know anything anymore. “You’re just gonna tell me to quit like everybody else? Like _Stanley?_ Fucking _Stanley?_ Who—Who’s a pussy? J-Just because he didn’t want to do anything didn’t mean I couldn’t, ya know? He tried to get me to stop—just like you, you’re all the same, but—But it’s _my_ fucking decision. And I can stop anytime I want! Not because _you_ , or—or _Stanley_ or any of the others tell me to. Any _fucking_ time I want!”

(When Eddie was younger, his mother told him to never do drugs. She said they make you do ugly things, and they ruin your teeth and your health and there is no good to come from them. “They’re for crazy people,” she said. “For sad, sad people who don’t have mothers that love them so much.”)

Eddie gets it now. He understands by the way Richie’s nose is bleeding right now, by the way Richie ignores the blood dripping into his mouth as his mouth furiously spits a gross froth.

“He—He stopped talking to me because he didn’t agree with me, big fucking deal! It’s my life! I can do whatever the _fuck_ I want!” As Richie huffs, out of breath and blinded by his rage, Eddie remembers the first night they met. He remembers Richie’s skinny frame, how he grew weaker as the weeks pushed on, how his pupils were sometimes too big, blown out, induced by his addiction. And suddenly, as a certain memory dawns on Eddie—the time when Richie had watched him at the roller rink, smile painted at his crusty lips—the image Eddie once had of Richie shatters.

Because Richie is sick. Not a dream.

“I-I can do whatever I want, Eddie. And you can’t do anything about it,” Richie breathes.

“Okay,” Eddie says. “But as long as you’re like this, I don’t want to be with you anymore.”

“I don’t get _why_ , Eddie. Sure, I made a few mistakes—I get a little in my head sometimes, but who doesn’t? It’s _you_ who has the issue. Not me. It’s not my fault you’re just like your little pussy of a cousin.” As soon as that leaves Richie’s mouth, his face falls and he reaches out as if to sympathize with Eddie, but Eddie pulls his arm back before Richie can touch him. “I didn’t—“

“It’s not a few mistakes.” Eddie almost laughs. Is Richie serious right now? “You lied to me, Richie. Beverly told me she hasn’t dated anyone since last year. That’s two lies already. You disappeared for three days—probably off shooting up somewhere with a group of nobodies, and you made me drive you to some _random person’s house_ —not Beverly’s ex.”

“You don’t know the full—“

“I don’t want to hear it!” Eddie yells. “Stop lying. I’m so sick of it!”

“You want me to stop lying?” Richie asks, words slurring together due to how fast he is speaking. Maybe he thinks Eddie will cut him off again. His anger seems to have faded into a sort of panic, now. He looks almost scared, yet Eddie doesn’t know what it is he fears. (Perhaps he is scared of losing someone else. Of losing Eddie.) “Fine. That night we met outside the roller rink—I lied. I didn’t want a milkshake—I wanted to talk to you. Okay? And I saw you go in so I stood outside because I couldn’t go in—because of Stan. And when you drove me to that house in the middle of the night—that wasn’t Beverly’s ex boyfriend. It was some _fucking_ guy who didn’t pay me for my dust—So I just went to his house to get the money, okay? Okay, Eddie?” Richie can’t possibly think that coming clean about a few things means Eddie will forgive him… right? Though there is hopelessness in his eyes as he continues to speak, “I would park outside of Scoops N’ Smiles because that’s _my spot._ I deal there—okay? And—And I don’t have allergies. My parents don’t fight, I was just with some buddies from out of town for a few days and—and I—“

“Richie,” Eddie says, tired. He drops his hand from the doorknob and instead threads his fingers through his sleep messy hair. Sighing, Eddie doesn’t want to have to deal with this. He wishes Richie had never started doing drugs; then neither of them would be in this mess, and Richie would still have somebody once Eddie leaves Leeside. “Richie, stop.”

“ _Eddie,_ ” Richie whines, stressed. “Just listen to what I’m saying—“

“I don’t want to,” Eddie huffs. “I’ve listened enough, Rich.”

“No. You don’t get it.” It looks as though Richie wants to take a step closer, his foot bouncing up and down, catching Eddie’s gaze, yet he seems to keep his distance upon knowing Eddie’s discomfort. “You—You can’t break up with me. You just can’t. Everybody leaves me, Eds—and you—you were supposed to be different.” Richie’s voice breaks, his throat tightening up, his eyes with a particular shine to them. And Eddie’s heart, though he has no reason to, _aches._ Richie is _crying._ Tears stuck in the corners of his eyes and cascading casually down his cheeks as if it happens often. Like he is used to wet cheeks and choked up confessions. And maybe he is. “You _like_ me. I know you do. You—You laugh a-at all my jokes and you kiss me and you… I… _Eddie._ ” There is a heartbreaking strain to his voice. It makes Eddie feel lightheaded. He wants this all to be some kind of sick dream. And he wishes Richie weren’t one. “Eddie, I _love_ you.”

Now this strikes a chord within Eddie, makes his heartbeat quicken and his palms sweat, his head spin and his chest burn. His entire body feels like it has been lit aflame. And not with flattery, or adoration, but with pure and unsolicited _terror._ Here stands the silhouette of a boy Eddie once knew.

“You don’t mean that,” Eddie tells Richie, but what he really means is _Please don’t mean that._ He swallows nervously, and he wonders if Richie can see his whole body shaking.

“I do. I love you.” _Stop saying that,_ Eddie wants to say, because it is unsettling to hear someone who makes you uneasy say that. But Eddie bites his tongue, tastes iron in his mouth, stares at Richie. At the stupidly panicked expression he wears. At the way his entire face falls as something dawns on him. And Eddie wants to run. He has never felt this uncomfortable before. “Don’t you… Don’t you love me, too?”

But Eddie doesn’t run. He slowly raises his hand to his chest, to remind himself that he is here, he is breathing, he is _alive._ And with trembling lips, he says, “Love you?” And he _hates this._ He hates this _so_ much. This is the hardest conversation he has ever had to have. Listening to his mother recount the death of his father doesn’t compare; this is a completely different kind of difficult. The kind with broken hearts and misguided trust. The kind shared between a light haired boy and a dark haired boy. “Richie, I don’t even _know_ you.”

And just like that, an arrow seems to shoot straight into Richie’s heart.

He staggers backwards, standing dangerously close to the porch steps, and Eddie almost says something, states a small warning, but Richie catches himself before he falls. Steadying out on his feet, his bleeding nose having stopped, he meets Eddie’s eyes. A final plead resides among them. Yet Eddie is quiet as he reclaims the doorknob as his safety net, curling his fingers around it tightly, ready to excuse himself from this situation.

Richie turns to leave, all brittle boned and clumsy.

And he goes.

(He leaves Eddie with the last word.)

 

 

When he gets back to Stan’s room, Stan is rummaging through his closet for something to wear, the radio a soft hum in the background. Eddie hates himself for recognizing the song that is playing. He hates himself for the memories that come with it. As he sits down on his bottom bunk, staring blankly at the wall, he only vaguely hears what Stan says to him. Though he seems to forget as soon as Stan turns to hear a reply. But Eddie is too clouded by his all-consuming thoughts and how they never seem to go away. He says, “This is Richie’s favorite song.”

And Stan replies, “I know.” This makes Eddie tear his gaze from the pale wall to his freckled cousin. He looks at Stan with soft eyes and a gaping mouth.

“He told you back when you were friends?” he asks, and perhaps it is a silly question.

“No.” Shaking his head, Stan purses his lips thoughtfully. “When he first started using, before it got bad, we would all joke that he’s the gold dust woman. Like in the song. Turns out, he actually is.”

_Well, did she make you cry? Make you break down? Shatter your illusions of love? And is it over now? Do you know how? Pick up the pieces and go home._

 

 

The roller rink is Eddie’s haven. Which is why he spends the entire day there, practicing salchows and testing out other tricks Derek has demonstrated. Eddie is just burning off his anger, his sadness. When he’s skating it is too challenging to think about anything other than the wheels of his shoes, and to remember to lift his right leg in preparation of his perfected triple salchow. A clear mind means a good performance. At least, that is what Eddie figures.

Of course, it is distracting when Beverly Marsh walks in. Her appearance alone is enough to throw Eddie off balance, and he trips over his own skate and tumbles to the floor embarrassingly. _Such an amateur fall,_ he thinks to himself. Her fiery curls are pulled up into a tight ponytail, her blue eyes wide with concern. The yellow dress she wears is too happy for her expression now. Maybe Richie told her what happened and she’s come to yell at Eddie. Whatever it is, Eddie is not having any of it. Though when she catches sight of Eddie, she approaches him immediately, ignoring Derek’s shouts of, “You need to rent skates before you walk on there!”

She towers over Eddie and extends her hand to help him up. While he narrows his eyes, he accepts her hand and pulls himself back to his feet. Eddie is about to ask what she’s doing here, but Beverly talks before he gets the chance.

“Eddie,” she says, breathless, and he wonders if she ran here to see him. “Richie, he—“

“I don’t want to talk about Richie.” Eddie rolls his eyes, putting a hand on his hip. “Did you really come all the way here to defend him? He scared me shitless, Beverly. You don’t understand—“

“He’s in the hospital,” Beverly states. _He’s… where?_ “He—a couple of his friends from out of town called an ambulance for him. They said Rich went over there this morning and went _hard._ I don’t know how it happened or what he did exactly but… And I know he hasn’t been the best to you lately, but I thought I would tell you anyway. I already stopped by Stan’s house and let him know. The others, too. They’re all over at the hospital right now.” Eddie’s sadness is suddenly replaced with worry.

“I-Is he okay?” Eddie questions, chest heavy.

“I think he will be,” Beverly says, though her face remains uncertain. “Stan said you were here. I thought I would pick you up on my way to visit Richie.”

“Yeah, of course. Let’s go.” He quickly follows Beverly over to the fencing and tugs off his skates. On their way out he shoves them on the counter, says to Derek, “I’ll be back for these later.” Though he honestly doesn’t know how long he will be. He might have to collect them tomorrow morning, or after work, because he only has a few more days before he goes back to Derry. Summer has come and gone. What an eventful two months it has been.

“Have you seen him yet?” Eddie asks Beverly when they enter the hospital. She leads them down a long hallway, and Eddie restrains from plugging his nose. He hates the disinfectant scent that hospitals carry. Being here makes his stomach turn. He can only imagine how Richie must feel.

“Yeah. Earlier. His friends called me after the ambulance came. I called Rich’s parents.”

“These friends…?” Eddie doesn’t know how to phrase his question.

“Other dealers,” Beverly answers knowingly. “Here. This room.” She turns to Eddie and puts her hand on his shoulder, offering him a sad, sympathetic smile. “I’m sure he’d like to see you. I think just his mom is in there right now. I’m gonna head downstairs to the cafeteria. Ben is waiting for me there.” Before she leaves, she cradles Eddie’s cheek like a parent would a child. Eddie leans into her touch foolishly. “It’s okay. Just… try to talk to him. Visiting hours are over soon.” Then she leaves, and Eddie is alone. He eyes the door to room 329, at the sliver of light that emerges from inside. A blind covers the window on the door, so Eddie takes a careful step closer. He doesn’t know if he can talk to Richie, doesn’t know if he can handle it. Seeing him hooked up to a machine with all those wires. Would he be able to stomach that?

He can’t.

He is a coward, and he can’t. He loiters outside the door to Richie’s room for a full five minutes, his hand on the doorknob, silently begging his body to take action and walk inside. The only movement that occurs is the door pushing slightly more open, the fault of Eddie’s jittery grip. He pulls his hand off the doorknob after that, takes a small step backwards as if to go unnoticed.

Nobody inside heard him. But because the door is open a bit wider now, Eddie can hear the subdued conversation Richie is having with his mother. Richie’s voice, all rasp and bitten, is choked up by ugly sobs. It breaks Eddie’s heart just to hear Richie’s crying.

But then Eddie hears, the words muffled into someone’s shirt, “I don’t wanna die, mom. I don’t want to.” And Eddie realizes the one thing Richie didn’t lie about was his relationship with his mother. Richie’s sweet and kind mother, who cares and loves him no matter what, who seems to have all of the qualities a mother should. The mother Richie deserves. And Eddie thinks that is it, the last strike to his heart: Richie’s tangled weeping and his mother’s careful shushing. Eddie cannot go in now, not when Richie is crying into his mother’s shirt. Not when there are ten minutes left to visiting hours.

So Eddie, a slave to his cowardice, turns to leave. But not before he hears Richie’s mother say, in the most nurturing voice Eddie has ever heard, “I know, baby. You’re not gonna die. You’re gonna be okay. I won’t ever let anything happen to you.”

(“It was an overdose,” Stan tells Eddie when he gets home later that night. “He had a seizure. The doctors said he was really lucky. They said most people in that situation end up dying.”)

Eddie never does visit Richie.

 

 

 

 

**next summer**

When Eddie drives into Leeside with his mother, he does not mention anything that happened the summer prior. Thankfully, neither does she, apart from the suggestion of, “You should go by that ice cream shop and see if you can get your job back.” To which Eddie agrees. Because he needs a job, something to take up his time this summer other than roller-skating. (He has gotten _very_ good. Just on the outskirts of Derry is a roller rink. Eddie went there everyday after school. He told his mother he was in tutoring.)

When he first gets settled in the Uris house, he unpacks his clothes in Stan’s spare dresser, prepares the bottom bunk with the clean sheets left at the foot of the bed by his aunt. Stan smiles at Eddie as he folds his shirts neatly, tucks his shorts in the lowest drawer. Eddie smiles back politely, asks Stan about school, how his classes went, what colleges he’s interested in… And there is no mention of Richie at all. Eddie doesn’t bring him up, and neither does Stan. Eddie doesn’t know how to ask, doesn’t know if he should, so he just doesn’t. He and Stan talk about video games across the dinner table. They laugh at stupid late night jokes. Eddie’s second day in Leeside, he gets his job and his old friends back. Mike, Bill, Beverly, Ben, and Stan all come into Scoops N’ Smiles with bright grins and hungry bellies. Whilst Eddie gets re-familiar with the soft serve machine, he listens to their chatter and giggles. Nobody mentions Richie. And when Eddie hands Beverly’s strawberry cone over to her, he searches her eyes as if there is a sort of explanation buried there. She says nothing.

Summer starts to pass. Derek isn’t in Leeside this summer, Eddie discovers; he left early for college to complete the summer semester. This makes Eddie’s smile falter a little, as his blue roller-skates knock against his knees, but it’s okay. Derek’s replacement is pretty nice. She smells like bubblegum and looks like rain, blue hair styled in tight ringlets at the crown of her head. Eddie skates with Mike, works with Stacey, he eats free ice cream until his stomach churns. And after a while, as the days begin to blur together, through chuckles and late night dips in the quarry, Eddie doesn’t think about the boy who used to own the red mustang. The one who loved Fleetwood Mac and got caught up with the wrong crowd, holes in his nose and his heart.

Work is fine. The nights are busy, the days a bit slow. All the teenagers have found solace in this one particular part of the park, so Eddie doesn’t need to do as careful as a job cleaning as he did before, because people now just pick up their ice cream and go. It’s a relief to Eddie, truly. He doesn’t really have to worry about cleaning up after disobedient children who talk back to their parents and spill their milkshakes.

Today is a slow day, so Eddie twiddles with the radio behind the counter in attempt to find a station that plays some decent music. He doesn’t look up when he hears the door chime, because Stacey ran out a while ago to go pick up some lunch, and figures it is just her returning. Instead, he waves a lazy hand behind over his shoulder, too focused on the radio to offer her a proper greeting. It is only when he finds a station that he is satisfied with, that he turns around with a grin on his face, ready to tell Stacey about the hilarious family that came while she was gone.

But it isn’t Stacey at all. It is a tall, pale boy, with his arms bare, a short sleeved yellow shirt fitted nicely against his chest, and he wears cherry red high-waisted jean shorts, paired with unattractively thick glasses. It is Richie. A new and improved Richie, who has gained not only some weight but the color back into his face, freckled cheeks dusted a light rose at the sight of Eddie, who stares at him, dumbfounded and blinking. He is standing over by the door, like he is not sure if Eddie will scream at him to leave. Ever so slowly, he brings a hand up to his hair, which is now short, with looser curls piled at the top of his head while the sides remain evenly trimmed. _He looks good_ , is the first thought Eddie has.

Richie says, “Hey, stud.” And just that nickname is enough to make Eddie’s heart swell, to remind him of all the memories he has shared with the boy standing across the room. Eddie hasn’t seen Richie since he was using, but judging by his new appearance and sanity, it seems as though Richie has sorted out his troubles. He was so bad before. Just looking at him made Eddie tremble. But like this… he looks clean. Maybe a little lifeless, his smile not yet completely reaching his eyes, but clean. _He looks healthy. More like a person than a skeleton._

As Richie approaches the counter, Eddie remains frozen in place, too startled to move, or to say anything. Though Richie does not seem to mind Eddie’s hesitance. In fact, his eyes are kind and his smile crooked, in a way that prompts Eddie to believe Richie understands. Eddie watches as Richie’s fingers tap against the countertop, and his eyes drift from Richie’s red painted nails to his arms, and the marks that reside on the bend of his elbow. _Track marks,_ Eddie thinks, swallowing nervously. And suddenly he is scared again, like he was last summer.

Richie notices his gaze shyly, and says, “I don’t do that anymore… It was only a few times, not that it matters. I mostly snorted.” Eddie once heard that if you snorted too much cocaine you could burn a hole through your nose. The thought makes him shudder. He wonders if Richie has ever heard of that risk. “Stan told me you’re working here again. I just wanted to say I’m sorry.” Eddie blinks. Still he is not brave enough to say anything, so he just cradles his left arm in his hand and meets Richie’s gaze. “Part of my recovery is admitting my mistakes to those I’ve hurt, so… I’m sorry. About everything. I never meant to make you feel scared, or angry, or sad, but I did and I take full responsibility for that. A-And I don’t expect you to forgive me, because I was a real piece of garbage. But I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry. Like, really fucking sorry.”

Finally, Eddie parts his lips to say something, but the words get jumbled in the back of his throat, and all that he can utter is an exhausted sigh. He doesn’t know what to think, or what to do. But this Richie seems different than the one that he feared so much. This Richie is better. He looks kind and sweet and he wouldn’t hurt Eddie, not now, on purpose, when he’s in full control of his head… Right?

“I went to rehab. I don’t know if Stan told you… it was some program my parents found for me. It was okay. It smelled like the doctor’s, though, and I hate the doctors,” Richie rambles, his fingers still anxiously tapping away. Eddie takes his bottom lip into his mouth as he ponders an appropriate thing to say. _I forgive you_ or _Thank you for apologizing_ seem far too formal. “Do you hate me?” Richie asks, voice strained. But he lets out a half-hearted chuckle before Eddie can reply. “Fuck. That’s such a dumb question. Of course you do.”

Now this doesn’t sit well with Eddie. Even a year ago, when Richie had scared Eddie and yelled at him, spit confusing lies in his direction and driven him mad, Eddie never hated him for it. He never hated Richie at all. (He hated what he had become.)

“I don’t know you well enough to hate you,” Eddie says quietly. And he doesn’t smile, but a wave of relief washes over Richie’s face at the sound of Eddie’s voice.

“Right… We don’t really know each other at all, do we?” Laughing softly, Richie awkwardly rubs the back of his neck. He seems relaxed, a little bashful. It is a refreshing look on him _._ “Well. I’m Richie Tozier. It’s nice to meet you.” Now Eddie can’t help but bite back a smile. Richie’s grin widens and he examines Eddie’s nametag, squinting as if he is trying to make out the name printed across the pin. “Eddie. Huh. Nice name. Suits you.” And there is some of him there, in these words exactly. There is Richie, charming and joking. The old friend Eddie used to know. A part of him Eddie recognizes.

“Richie,” Eddie breathes, playing along. Richie bats his eyelashes, stops his finger drumming and stuffs his hands into the front pockets of his shorts instead. The grin on his face is painted on messily, yellow teeth and all, yet they don’t look as bad anymore. Not in this light. Not when Richie managed to pick himself up in a time of complete loss. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” Richie replies, voice strangely soft. There is a beat of silence between them, of just eyes, and suddenly it is like last summer all over again, when Richie had been in the driver’s seat of his red mustang and Eddie had been outside Scoops N’ Smiles waiting for Stan. Suddenly things are simple again, and Eddie’s heartbeat quickens at the thought of a cute boy holding his hand. Palms sweat at the thought of kissing one. Body lit aflame at the thought of _Richie_. “So… can I get an ice cream, or what?”

This makes Eddie’s smile break out into a full laugh. Nothing could compare to the utter relief he feels right now. Absolutely nothing.

And so, he adjusts the pink hat on his head with a nervous hand, and he says, “Welcome to Scoops N’ Smiles, where each ice cream flavor is guaranteed to make you smile.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKS FOR READING come drop me a thought or two in the comments  
> or just come yell at me on tumblr @finnwolfhard
> 
> kofi - https://goo.gl/oQNXuy

**Author's Note:**

> i hope u all enjoyed!!! :^) if u did please do not hesitate to leave a comment i read everything and appreciate u all so much... i am also on tumblr as @finnwolfhard if ya wanna drop me an ask there! im happy to talk abt anything here as long as its not a spoiler
> 
> i will be updating the tags as i post chapters as not to spoil anything!!!
> 
> thank u for reading!!! xox


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